


in our gethsemane

by Anecdoche (so_psychso)



Category: High Noon Over Camelot - The Mechanisms (Album), The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Tags to be Added/Changed, Dom/sub, Flirting, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Innuendo, M/M, Porn With Plot, Religion Kink, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sacrilegious Kissing, The Mortifying Ordeal of Lust, also rating change to Mature for now until we get to actual E stuff, blink and you'll miss it it's a Very passing thing in ch 4, but dw there's a Lot of upcoming nasty, tags to be added/clarified as fic progresses, xianity is a pick'n'mix and mam just gave me 20 quid in the candy store
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:40:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25773001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/so_psychso/pseuds/Anecdoche
Summary: And faith, of course, may take as many forms as it pleases.(In which sin and sanctity bear far closer relation than they may care to admit.)
Relationships: Drumbot Brian/Gunpowder Tim, Drumbot Brian/Gunpowder Tim/Galahad (High Noon Over Camelot), Gunpowder Tim/Galahad (High Noon Over Camelot)
Comments: 69
Kudos: 135





	1. left from the deck of a ship in the dock; low

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SnailArmy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnailArmy/gifts).
  * Inspired by [if not by faith, then by the sword](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24529357) by [SnailArmy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnailArmy/pseuds/SnailArmy). 



> yeehaw here we go lads uhhhh...... this was just supposed to be a lil self indulgent one shot bc @SnailArmy got me Thinking and Looking at Galahad, instead we're getting an entire hnoc canon/lore rewrite And sacrilegious porn! I do not have an update schedule planned, but writing this is going easy peasy so you won't be kept waiting long. Was gonna slam out just the whole thing at once, but I like the idea of chapters better. Pls enjoy! And as always, I love feedback, so please feel free to drop a comment <3
> 
> Title modified from Gethsemane by Dry the River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title modified from New Cross by Dry the River 
> 
> (this is my horny religious time band, can you tell?)

The first settlement they come to is all but desiccated; a couple ramshackle tenements more skeleton than township, but since there’s no sign of Brian, the meager details get lost, and it’s on to the next. His last message had been almost 137 years ago, hardly enough to go on save the coordinates of the decrepit station and the vague insinuation that, at the very damn least, he doesn’t seem to be stuck anywhere below surface. None of them are keen on rat’s maze interiors, not after the City. 

“So,” Tim breaks the jittery silence as the rest of the crew contend with their irritation at another dead end. He feels it, too, no question, but he’s found a decent way to pass the time.

“Anymore bets it’ll be the next one or—?” 

“Piss off,” Ashes mutters, throwing him one of their more severe glares, and Tim bites his tongue around a wry smile as he holds out his hand.

Begrudgingly, Ashes deposits a crumpled wad of notes into his palm. It’s useless, the tender, but it feels good to win something when all they’ve got to go on is so much rusty goddamn nothing. 

It’s a nice distraction, too, from the unrelenting ache sitting thick in his chest, an arrhythmic assault of low, simmering worry. They’ve all the bloody time in the world to find Brian, sure, but nearly a century and a half is still a decent clip of time to nurture one’s apprehensions. And sometimes, even amidst immortality, things just do get lost—Tim of all people knows that best.

Which is a train of thought he pointedly does not entertain, though Ashes seems to be done with games for the time being, so Tim has to turn his attention elsewhere. Ivy and Raphaella are never really sporting at this kind of thing, Marius cheats at the best of times, the Toy Soldier doesn’t understand stakes of any kind, and Jonny? Maybe two months ago, sure, but he’s started going a bit stir crazy, and last time that came to a head, it took almost a day to clean up Marius.

Nastya’s far too analytical, which sucks all the fun out, so Tim takes his lumps, stuffing Ashes last credits into his pocket to molder with the rest of his useless winnings, and relegates himself to sulking. He’s subtle about it, of course, just stares out one of the port windows till he’s lost in his own wistfulness and is able to think a little less keenly about how empty the ship feels without Brian. 

The world beyond the window—all rust and dust and angry orange and red curving back in on itself—relinquishes nothing to Tim’s gaze, and, in a way, he’s grateful.

He keeps watching though, keeps looking. Just in case.

-

Another three weeks drag by, a tail-between-the-legs passage of time, guilty of as much as it is helpless to its own uselessness, but there’s a current of anticipation thrumming beneath the wait. It’s nothing so rapturously convenient as a direct ping from Brian, himself, but the sudden silhouette of what could almost pass as a city looming up on the horizon portends a very promising development, and the tension coiling through the crew eases somewhat. Enough to let Tim entertain a notion of hope.

“F’he’s anywhere, he’s there. Bloody git.” As Nastya does her best to set up a proper landing sequence, Jonny grouses this to the rest of the crew, his relief thinly veiled, and Tim almost wants to crack wise but thinks better of it. 

No point in goading that bear trap, best to just get Jonny off the ship and killing some poor sod to let out the steam. Besides, having already privately resolved to take up the task of locating Brian, Tim’s not keen to draw attention. 137 years without one of your best mates, that can certainly do a thing or two to the heart, and Tim’s not ashamed to hope for something of a—well a joyous reunion is perhaps a stretch, though he wouldn’t exactly begrudge a kiss at the very least. 

Anyway, the more he does to keep the rest of the crew tame until they land, the better. Less likely to run the risk of one of them trying to insinuate themselves into his endeavors. 

It’s still an hour yet to the town, which is plenty enough time for Tim’s nerves to contort with all manner of new and interesting pangs inside his chest—as well does Jonny take it upon himself to come up with several creative swears and threats. But as the Aurora begins her descent a mile outside the perimeter and at last docks, all disquiets and ire are promptly usurped by a heady brume of excitement. It ripples through the crew, like a limb released of its bonds, stretching and aching and ready to fight again. 

A lingering apprehension lurks beneath, sure, but there’s something always so _good_ about discovering another world with all its tragedy and mystery, something none of them are ever quite immune to. And as the ship kicks up an impressive cloud of rust and dust, an eddying whorl outside the windows, even Tim finds it hard to wallow too heavily in the prospect that there’s every chance Brian isn’t here.

Which doesn’t mean he’s not crowding immediately at the bay door beside Jonny, ignoring Nastya’s threats that if either of them even think of leaving before she’s run proper diagnostics, she’ll have them— 

The rest goes unfinished, Jonny spitting an impressive volley of insults at her before overriding the door. He’s gone like a shot, and Tim spares Nastya an apologetic shrug before following suit.

The air outside barrels into him with alarming force, a fist of scorching heat that cleaves the oxygen from his lungs and burns his eyes dry. The dust doesn’t help, either, and the sediment of rust clings with a taste like rotten silver to his tongue. He makes it a few dozen yards before he bowls over, hands braced to his thighs, hacking and coughing.

“F’you’re gonna tag along like some sick puppy,” comes Jonny’s ragged voice, and Tim glances up to see him already sporting a makeshift mask, his goggles pulled down tightly.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Tim replies, affixing his own eye-wear.

Rifling through his pockets, though, he comes up moot of any decent bit of anything to wrap around his face.

“Here,” Jonny to the rescue again, proffering an old neckerchief he’s pulled from goodness knows where, but Tim takes it with alacrity, the burn in his throat soothed to a manageable degree as soon as he’s got it secured.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“There’s a fifty-three percent chance you idiots are going to fucking die before you even make it to the town!” This, called out distantly behind them, and Tim turns to see Ivy gesturing madly from the ship.

“Fuck off!” Jonny calls back and turns on his heel, stalking away.

Tim offers her a commiserant wave—they haven’t exactly made it far, but neither does any of the crew seem keen to follow—then turns to catch up with Jonny.

“M’not in the mood to babysit,” Jonny mutters as Tim lopes beside him.

“That’s fine, neither am I.”

“Piss off.”

Tim chuckles, and their company lapses into amiable silence, at least insofar as the environment around them permits it. Little more than a stiff breeze kicks the rust around, but combined with the unrelenting sun—a true marvel of infuriating engineering, that—and the utter lack of any moisture in the air, it’s not long before both men are breathing heavily, their coats swiftly shed, Tim going so far as to braid his hair back, too.

“You think he’s here?” Jonny eventually says, the silence between them only adding to the heat’s oppressive bulk.

Tim drags the back of his hand across his brow, then his goggles—visibility is pretty shit.

“I hope so,” he says. 

“You want, y’know,” Jonny winds his hands in a circle, “help finding him?”

Again, Tim laughs, struck with that fleeting sense of fondness he has for the mate.

So he answers truthfully, “Maybe, but let me look first, yeah? Plus I think it’s in your best interest to get some drinks in.”

All of his nice cards evidently exhausted, Jonny replies, “Can’t imagine what a shit hole like this has. But yeah, sure.”

There’s little else to discuss beyond that, so Tim doesn’t press anything further and trains his focus on one foot in front of the other. Just as well, it’s good to spare his breath, each inhale a scorched effort, though he’s grateful for the discomfort. It keeps his mind from wandering. 

Still, they arrive at the environs of the town with due haste, diving into the stooped shadow of the closest building and pausing to gather their bearings.

“Sure you don’t want a few shots, first?” Jonny goads, surprisingly good-natured, though Tim rather suspects that’s at the behest of the promised alcohol.

“Not my poison today, I’m afraid,” Tim claps him on the shoulder.

“Yeah well,” going for the last cigarette in his pocket, Jonny shrugs out of the hand, “just don’t melt your face off when you snog him. Can’t imagine he much stays cool in this place.”

Tim snorts, “I’ll keep that in consideration.”

Jonny just grins and lights up, and Tim takes that as his cue to part. 

“Try not to kill anyone yet, okay?” He offers as a parting sentiment. “At least get a feel for the locals first.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck off now, would you?”

And with a saunter and a smirk, Tim does just that.

-

It’s remarkable, really, how life can persist when it’s propped up in direct defiance to a world that would sooner kill it dead in a matter of seconds. By no means is the town a rival to any of the metropolis Tim’s seen in the last few decades, but it’s still pretty damn tenacious given its lot. Plenty of halfway decent looking folk mill about the main thoroughfare, and Tim wends their activities with ease, fitting right in, at least aesthetically. He keeps his ears and eyes open, though, gleaning a feel for the place, what kind of culture he’s up against. 

Which, after only fifteen minutes of directionless meandering, turns out to be gunslingers, saloons, and bandits. _Definitely_ somewhere he can fit it, and his nerves about Jonny’s temperaments dissolve just as readily. Rescue mission or not, Brian certainly made good to get himself stranded in a place like this. 

Still, Tim’s not quite worked his way into the center of the hub, and although the heat is slightly more tolerable than in the surrounding wastes, it’s hard to find the energy to go all guns-a-blazing demanding information from the nearest bystander. Sure, their weapons are ancient, even by the standards of Tim’s prized flintlock flanked at his left hip, but he’s really not keen to start anything if he can help it. 

No, he’ll have a wander around first, and then start asking questions. The best part? Everyone’s human, which will make identifying Brian that much simpler.

He explores the streets, first, a simple enough task given the relatively mundane layout of the town. This in turn permits him to distinguish the residential from the business from the abandoned. With the suburbs swept, he narrows his perusal to the innermost portion, the bulk of which consists of shops and taverns. No doubt Jonny’s found his way to one already.

Most impressive, though, a clock tower sprouts out of what looks to be a hall of sorts, its once ornate construction now a lamentable thing of decay and exposed sprockets, and beside that, the meager steeple of a lone church asserts a black and beckoning spire, harsh against the already blinding haze of the sky. Tim doesn’t look for too long, just enough to grimace at whatever bleak religion must burn its roots in the parched souls here, and moves on. 

He has no real contingency plan, just figures he’d best start poking his nose around. His safest bet will probably be one of the bars, what with their inevitable saturation of gossip. The church is another good option, though, given its lot, it’s likely to house some fire and brimstone types. They always do crop up in these most dire of places. 

That, and he can’t very well see Brian playing penitent—always been a bit sore about the whole witch thing, him.

Between that and a saloon, then, his choice is easy. He picks a tavern at random, and the painted brace of pistols crossed like a coat of arms on a placard has absolutely nothing to do with his choice. It’s otherwise nameless, the establishment, and Tim gathers his poise and strides on in, suddenly eager for something to soothe the scratch in his throat, and he swiftly divests his goggles and mask almost as soon as he’s through the door.

A dingy room thick with smoke and the smell of sweat greets him, as does the pitiful sight of only a select few patrons hunched at an equally sparse dispersal of tables. There’s no trace of Jonny, thank fuck, and Tim relaxes into the atmosphere, twigging out a feel for it. Aside from the patrons, three stools stand wobbly and unused by the bar, and a sallow tender leans heavily on his side of the counter, head propped in his hand. Evidence of a youth in its prime lingers beneath the sour frown and dark circles, and damn… if Tim doesn’t know exactly how that must feel. 

He’s not wholly miserable, though, glancing over as Tim announces his presence by the weight of his footfalls, and the lad does something of what could loosely be called a stare, the makings of a blush creeping briefly over his nose. 

It doesn’t look half bad on him. 

Tim, for his terrible part, decides to have a little fun with that.

Rolling his neck, he saunters over, ensuring not to tuck away the few strands of hair that fall out of his braid, and sits down smoothly on the stool directly opposite the tender.

“And what would you recommend, love,” he says, leaned in far too close than is polite, and enjoying every panicked micro-expression that flits across the man’s face.

“I, uh–you’re, uh—”

“New?” Tim finishes for him. “Yeah, just blew in, heard this was the place you go to wet the tongue a bit. Think you can help me out?”

The poor guy actually splutters, and in less than thirty seconds, Tim’s been presented with a glass of whiskey poured like pure gold. Probably the best available, and Tim harbors the brief realization he almost definitely doesn’t have the kind of cash this place would take despite the dozen various types of credits and notes and coins stashed in his coat. 

Enjoying how this has played out, already, he tries his luck just a little bit further.

“My shining knight,” he purrs to the helpless tender. “And how much is this gonna cost me?”

“S’on th’house,” the man squeaks.

It’s adorable, really.

Tim’s not afforded long to enjoy his little game, and no sooner has he pilfered this truly excellent glass of whiskey, than does one of the nearby patrons stand and make their way over to the bar, abruptly insinuating themselves beside Tim.

“Now, now Mr. Palfrey,” the stranger admonishes, tone gruff and yet enthralling much in the way barbed wire might be when snagged against bare skin. “We can’t go giving over our livelihoods to every pretty stranger that waltzes in here. What would your mother say?”

The tender, Palfrey, goes bug-eyed and scarlet to his hairline, quickly hanging his head. 

“S-sorry, Father,” he mumbles. “Just thought it’d be nice, since he’s new and all.”

_Oh_ , Tim thinks, and rearranges himself still with that flirtatious fluidity so he can get a good look at the man who cuts the cloth in a place like this.

“Hallo, then,” he smirks, quickly raking his eyes up and down the preacher.

Nothing too impressive, really, at least not at first glance. Five o'clock shadow, middling height, stocky build, brassy hair falling in loose curls only just kept in order beneath a tattered black saturno, but his face… now that’s worth looking at. Tim’s learned a thing or two over the years what with his penchant for brutish severity lurking beneath cherubim softness, and the preacher wears his zealotry beautifully, especially in those bright, manic green eyes.

Presently, they narrow in suspicion, but Tim just keeps smiling, cocky and charming and ever so subtle.

The preacher doesn’t even flinch.

“We try to run a clean town around here,” he says, sliding Tim’s tumbler over to his side of the counter without for a second breaking eye contact.

Bringing the glass to his lips, he adds, chastising, “Some of us, anyway,” before throwing back the whiskey.

Tim watches, delighted, his eyes tracking the dip of the man’s throat as it takes the two good shots worth of liquor like its fresh spring water.

“Tell me more, Father…” Tim draws out the latter syllable, keeping his cadence light and airy as he offers his hand.

“Galahad,” the preacher answers, and roundly ignores the proffered truce.

“Father Galahad,” Tim parrots brightly. “Nice to meet you, and my sincerest apologies for tarnishing this fine establishment’s reputation.”

“Not me you need to apologize to,” Galahad replies, hook line and sinker.

Or perhaps he’s just as good at playing the game as Tim, because he doesn’t even bother to acknowledge the tender.

Tim defers to that, himself.

“You have my word, Mr. Palfrey,” Tim says to the young man, “I’ll have that drink paid in full.”

“S’really no problem,” Palfrey says, still jittery, still kind of adorable for it, although Tim’s interest is decidedly vested in Galahad, now.

So from the corner of his eye, he watches very carefully for Galahad’s reaction as he reaches over the counter, takes Palfrey’s hand, and brushes the calloused knuckles with his lips.

The whole shtick oozes smarm and sarcasm, but Palfrey, apparently, isn’t the type to catch on. And it wasn’t for him, besides. 

Pulling back, Tim cocks a half-smile, “Thank you kindly.”

“I, uh,” stammers Palfrey, but Tim’s already turned and slid off his stool, making for the door and biding his time on a leisurely exit.

Hook, line, and bloody sinker, and once more that calmly manic presence manifests beside him, Galahad going so far as to rest a hand on the small of Tim’s back.

“Walk with me, son,” he says flatly, all iron thick and commanding as if he’s the one who’s made the decision that Tim take his leave. 

“I’d like to hear your story.”

-

Tim tells him, of course. Fantastical things. Adventures and murder and jilted lovers and near misses and loss and discovery. He does not, of course, ensure _any_ of this isn’t entirely some spur of the moment fabrication. It certainly isn’t a means for Tim to stretch his narrative legs a bit, for when the crew next needs something to sing about because the universe has failed to ante up any good tragedies. Heavens, no. 

Because what Galahad doesn’t know can’t sway him any other way than exactly where Tim wants him. Which is an interesting dilemma in and of itself given that Tim hasn’t even decided _how_ he wants to utilize this little tête-à-tête, but it’s probably in his best interest to keep things under wraps, sidle his way into information and all that. If Galahad turns out to be a useful ally, then Tim will give him the full of it. If not, that’s one less mortal to worry about, especially one inclined to decrying heresy and botching the whole mission.

It’s still… difficult, the preacher proving firmly taciturn as they loiter together outside the saloon. While Tim paces and gesticulates, weaving his tale of grandiose bullshit, Galahad simply leans back against the wall, his face drawn in shadow by the brim of his hat. 

“Mighty interesting,” he offers blandly when Tim finishes, tilting his chin up to reveal a half-cocked grin. “You’ve a right silver tongue there, you know that?”

“Heard it mentioned a few times, yes” Tim returns, perhaps threading a bit more implication through the sentence than he means to.

“I’d be careful with it,” Galahad continues, unperturbed. “Invites all manner’a trouble.”

Trying his luck, Tim insinuates himself beside the preacher, leaning heavily against the wall and letting his head fall sidelong with a smirk.

“Had a brush with your own loquacious demons, Father?”

Galahad doesn’t even look at him, just keeps staring out into the street, eyes narrowed. 

“What’re you after, son,” he says at length.

“A friend,” Tim answers promptly, leaving just enough ambiguity for the man to make of the statement whatever best suits the agenda he’s compiling against Tim.

Until he responds, just as obliquely, “Can’t help you with that, I’m afraid.

“But,” he continues, and kicks off the wall with such apathetic ease, he may as well never have been leaning there at all. “I might be able to offer you someone who can.”

“Oh?” Tim re-situates himself at Galahad’s side, intrigued.

“Mm, none ‘round here who don’t know, already. And it’s my sworn privilege to keep ‘em all straight, so that now includes you.”

“If you’re trying to evangelize me,” Tim goads, but the preacher cuts him off with a harsh glare. 

Fair’s fair—he did take that perhaps a little too far.

“S’my duty to guide the flock,” Galahad says. “Even derisive son’s-a-bitches like you.”

Tim laughs, full and hearty. Oh yes, he _likes_ this one.

“Guide away, Father,” he finishes sweepingly, and the preacher almost nearly smiles.

Catching himself before the transgression can transpire, Galahad turns and begins a slow, steady pace toward the church—not even a glance backwards to see if Tim follows.

He does. Of course he does. And he catches up just in time to hear the man mutter, “Time you met the Prophet, son.”

And, well… that’s that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, if ur wanting to know Just how thirst i am about that braid and how galaxy brain i consider myself abt it, here's a doodle so u know what the inside of my mind is like 24/7 https://mister-faggot.tumblr.com/post/625853727149015040


	2. I had a vision in the chapel; flame flickered on your forehead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this later in the week, as I have a backlog building up which I prefer in case of writer's block, but work sucked and I want clout and validation dsfklj. So come get yall kisses
> 
> Chapter title modified from Hidden Hand by Dry the River (I swear we'll get another band in here soon)

And _that_ is about the last damn thing Tim’s expecting, but you don’t live as long as immortality allows without stumbling into a few baffling coincidences here and there.

The one _here_ —strung up and kneeling on his own bloody altar adorned in lavishments one wouldn’t have thought possible in a dump like this—leaves Tim speechless. Probably for the best, too, such that Galahad can interpret that however he damn well pleases. Best he doesn’t know the relief that’s pounding through Tim, the willpower it’s taking to restrain himself from running over and kissing the _goddamn Prophet_ stupid. 

No, Galahad’s better off assuming Tim’s catatonic state arises of whatever piety strikes sinners numb behind the teeth. 

“Magnificent, isn’t he?” The preacher breathes, his tone done up in preeminent reverence—iron adorned in false-calf gold.

“Been here since before Camelot was settled. Wisdom, son, that’s what this place needs, and I’ve tasked myself as its interpreter before the Almighty’s finest.

“It’s thankless, of course,” he continues wistfully, clearly reveling in his odd brand of self-flagellation.

“Oh?” Tim says airily, applying an erudite tone in an effort to hide his yet unabated surprise, and he swears he catches a faint smirk flit across Brian’s stoic face. 

Galahad hums, pacing up to the altar, a humble thing of varnished wood, but still stately for its surroundings, and draped in a tapestry of deeply royal purple. Brian provides an annoyingly gorgeous contrast. Although rust threatens at his hung-stiff joints, he’s been secured in at least something of a merciful position, as much a crucifixion as one might levy upon the being they claim to covet. Here, Galahad rests his hand on its edge, fingers, it would seem, disallowed from even touching Brian. 

“The Prophet doesn’t speak to any old trespass,” the preacher explains, gravely, “and these folk hardly listen to me, besides.”

Unable to quell his rising amusement, Tim can’t catch the next words out of his mouth, and its not unlike sticking his whole face in a bear trap, just to give the teeth a kiss.

“Pray tell, Father,” he says. “What iniquities beseem you to the Prophet?”

One, two swift strides, and Galahad finally strikes, till he’s got Tim backed up against the nearest pew, and in his surprise, Tim fails to catch his knees from buckling, kicked by the edge of the seat, and he topples—albeit somewhat gracefully, at least. Galahad fairly looms, bracing his arms at either side of Tim’s shoulders as the first stirrings of true, fiery passion lash like flint in his eyes.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he snarls, “get smart with me, _son._

“I’m confiding this for your benefit. Maybe the world’s all set to rights where you come from, maybe you don’t have to see more and more of your flock fall like chafe and ash to their own pitiful self destruction. It’s a bitter life, ours, but it’s all we’ve got, and I’ll be damned a hundred times over if I let some doe-eyed devil put to question _my_ faith.”

“But you do still think I’m pretty,” Tim wagers, 65% certain he’s about to earn a bullet between said eyes.

Galahad appears to debate just that, smoldering rage climbing the tendons of his neck, and Tim’s mouth curiously aches at the sight, his pulse catching quick trip over itself, intrigued. The trail runs cold, though, as Galahad simmers to coals, still mean enough to burn, but lenient in his sparing of Tim too much more fallout.

Fire and brimstone, and all that, but the man still has his brute force, alone.

And he’s quick again, cat-o-nine though sans the decency to wound appropriately as he hauls Tim up from the pew and drags him to Brian’s altar. 

“I think you need to kneel,” he says, kneeing Tim in the backs of his own, sending him staggering all over again. “And seek your answers from the source.”`

“Won’t deign to stay, will you, Father?” Because apparently Tim can’t find it in himself to shut the hell up. “Guide my spirit along this great undertaking?”

Galahad blinks down at him, an attractive mix of bewildered bemusement warring with his latent anger.

Then he laughs, a derisive huff of air, and shakes his head with such immutable disappointment, and—oh—if that doesn’t positively _taunt_ Tim.

“Ain’t no voyeur to the Lord’s parlance,” he rebuffs, though any hint of vitriol has been done thoroughly away with, leaving behind—Christ what was that, pity? Hope? 

Tim bites his tongue against a barrage of antagonisms, recalling _why_ , exactly, he’s here, and it’s really in his best interest to get rid of the preacher. But dammit if the man hasn’t got him snared up in a maelstrom of fascination, and he can’t help one last go.

“You’re sure his, ah, reticence won’t leave me wanting?” He tries not to sound like a prick, he really does.

It’s rather hard, though, when Brian is _right there_ , where Tim can almost feel the anticipation rolling off of him in waves of delicate circuitry and that ever human heart that thrums beneath it all. 

“Your type’s never satisfied,” Galahad answers, suitably cryptic. “I don’t expect you’ll ever find salvation, but that’s not my conjecture to decide.

“Stay there awhile,” said with an almost fond air, wholly juxtaposed to the preacher’s acrimony not moments prior. “See what he can make of you.”

With that, Galahad turns and paces away between the modest rows of pews to the doors, them with barely a latch to keep the devil at bay. 

And then Tim’s alone, prostrated before the Prophet, wholly confused, curious, and something just shy of exhilarated.

Till his head and heart catch up with one another, and there detract no further distractions, his attention turned fully on Brian and what’s become of him in this absence.

Truly, he is an image to worship. There are, of course, the logistics to puzzle out—like how exactly has Brian found himself a veritable piece of iconography, but Tim’s less concerned about that, awe once more taking hostage his better sense as he struggles to believe that, after all these decades, he’s finally found Brian. He’s here. No more searching. 

Damn, stupid bastard.

“Hello,” the stupid, _damn_ bastard says creakily, as if the last auspice he’d given was years ago. And for all Tim knows, or really cares, it probably was.

“Just had to make yourself into another deity, didn’t you,” Tim replies cheekily to tamp down the burning need licking up his throat.

“And you had to piss off the preacher,” Brian answers back, grinning. “Couple years ago, he’d have had you stoned.”

Tim laughs at that, perhaps too breathily, but he doesn’t care. He’s _missed_ Brian. 

“Sorry it took so long,” he says, reaching out to brush a hand over Brian’s fingers, lashed to the remnant gallows that comprise the standing portion of the altar.

He manages a scalding second of contact before drawing it back, wincing from the heat pouring off the metal digits.

“Well that’s no fun,” he mutters, frowning. “How th’fuck am I supposed to kiss you?”

“A dilemma for the greats,” Brian replies. 

“I’m serious,” Tim says gravely. “The second I get you back on the ship, I’m f—”

“You’re fucking joking, right?”

Tim jumps, and snaps his head around to see Jonny sauntering into the church, maneuvering the tread of one who’s definitely enjoyed himself one too many “complementary” whiskeys. Christ, Tim really hopes Palfrey’s still alive.

Behind him, Brian’s heavy sigh cuts through Tim’s errant panic.

“Hiya, Jonny.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jonny replies. 

“–has nothing on you,” he adds, leering and wobbling and barely catching himself on one of the pews.

“Great fuckin’ joint you chose, though, mate. _Great_ bar scene. D’you know I just met two widowers in ten minutes? _Excellent_ crowd, here. Real sporty. Er, shooty. S’great. You sh–”

“Hey, Jonny?” Tim interrupts, still kneeling, but hopefully his piss-the-fuck-off expression does him enough credit.

“Mm?” The mate hums, staring up at the ceiling, apparently taking in the view of ancient beams and shingling, ignoring Tim completely.

“Was kinda having a thing, here, if you don’t mind.”

“In–in fact I do,” Jonny wags his finger skyward, drawing it back down until he’s pointing directly at Brian. “Think I haven’t... missed you, too? Ya prick?”

“I do so love when you’re sauced,” Brian answers succinctly, mouth drawn in a firm smirk to match Jonny’s.

“ _Damn_ right,” Jonny says. “But yeah, sure, whatever. You two do your… whatever. Just lemme know when you’re done being, uh, special. Or God. Whatever.”

“I’ll send a burning bush, how about.”

Jonny throws him the bird, and thankfully wanders his way back out of the church. Tim holds his breath, too easily envisaging Galahad barging in and demanding answers for that bloody spectacle. 

After several seconds of silence, he turns to Brian.

“Think Galahad heard that?”

“Unlikely,” Brian assures. “He’s very… consistent, about this. Once had him hogtie two adulterers here for seven hours straight. Only came back when one of them pissed themselves. Even then, it took another two hours before he let them go.”

“That’s fucked up. You know that, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And you–?”

“Got a short ballad out eventually. It uh… they listen better if I sing.”

“Right,” this isn’t going the way Tim expected, and he feels they’re rather dancing around the grander issue.

“So uh…” he rubs at his knees, suddenly shy for reasons he can’t quite suss. “Why uh. Why’re you here? Exactly? And why haven’t you tried to escape? Doesn’t really scream hostage, this. Hell, I think Galahad would literally let you walk all over him.”

“I’m sure he’d be more than grateful, yes,” Brian replies. “But ah… it’s not that easy. Kind of got myself a bit, er, tangled up? I guess? In the mainframe of the station? Or something, I don’t really understand the specifics, I’m sure Nastya would, though. Or Raph."

“Do you at least remember how you got here?” Tim tries, angling for something that might spark recollection. Brian does seem awfully addled.

“Well I found this place after catching a smugglers ship out of Labyrinth. And then… ah it’s really hard to get the specifics. Was trying to figure this place out, I guess, get a message to Aurora, but when I plugged in all I really got was… something about schematic integrity and fund allocations? I–I don’t know, but I can’t… leave. I mean literally, look,” and here Brian manages to turn his head so Tim can see the mass of wires pouring down the back of his neck and spine, and through the floor.

“Did you fucking… literally plug yourself into this place,” Tim asks, perhaps more blunt than necessary, but he’s never fared with complicated tech matters. Or tact.

“Er, yes,” Brian answers, sheepishly. “I mean, kind of.”

A beat.

“...Yeah. Yeah I did.”

“I–I mean, sure?” Tim throws up his hands, mostly to cover his mouth and hide a laugh. “That doesn’t seem like the smartest thing to do but…”

“But now I’m some sort of god to these people.”

“Yeah, why is that, exactly?”

“Oh. Ehm, the, uh, the station feeds me coherent information now and again. Doppler readings mostly, about inclement dust storms, and some hydroponics and oxygen data. There are other things, really… awful things, about what happened to the first settlement, but it’s just bits and pieces. Galahad prefers those, of course."

"O...kay?" Tim doesn't quite follow, but he listens intently.

"I got here after the build crews had abandoned it," Brian continues, "but I guess there were settlers in the lower levels that didn’t even know about all that. It took them a few years to get to the surface, and then they found me, read me for some kind of soothsayer, and now I’ve got a whole church.”

“Galahad seems to think you’re less than revered,” Tim points out, not meaning to tease, but it’s all rather very funny.

“Galahad,” Brian replies dryly, “thinks that anyone who doesn’t writhe and prostrate at my very presence is a scorpion-tongued sinner doomed for all eternity. The more they can avoid me, the better. It’s virtually empty here on Sundays, but he’s—”

“Stubborn as all fuck?

“I was going to say passionate, but sure, let’s go with that.”

“Hm,” Tim hums considerately, tapping out a little rhythm on his thighs as he cocks his head. “I don’t know, I kind of like him.”

Brian just gives a withering glare.

“But I suppose we should get you out of here.”

“What, you think I haven’t tried?”

Tim blinks at the Drumbot, eyebrow raised. He… hadn’t, actually. Hasn’t spared much critical thought since his mind found itself preoccupied with the sheer relief of having found Brian.

“It’s not just these,” Brian explains, gesturing as best he can to the wires in his neck. “I’ve been a part of this station for so long, I can… feel it, almost. There’s something terrible that it’s hiding. Maybe about who built it, or why it was left incomplete–”

“So–so we get Nastya, yeah?” Tim interrupts, seized suddenly by a discomfiting sense of immediacy. “Cut the metaphysical umbilical cord. Get you out, clear your head, run diagnostics or whatever.”

Brian shakes his head.

“I can’t just leave it alone,” he says. “I sent that signal to Aurora because whatever happens, I’m going to need you all to get me out. But not right now. Not yet.”

Immortal or not, Tim’s human enough to know a veritable suicide pact when he hears one, and he moves as a man possessed by blind instinct, leveraging up on his knees and bracing his palms against Brian’s chest. Heat burrows swiftly through his nerves, but he doesn’t care. Barely even notices.

“I’m not waiting another hundred years,” he says. Or maybe demands. There’s one too many millions of emotions striking the back of his throat, hammering blows that leave him choked up for reasons that deny themselves to sense.

“Of course not,” Brian says, staring him down, so soft in his rusted martyrdom, and so close, almost enough to slake the ache behind Tim’s tight set teeth.

“But whatever fate’s in store for this place, it’s definitely drawing close. And I have to be here to guide these people to it.”

“I _hate_ when you get profound,” Tim laments, moving closer, still confused, slightly angry, and fully willing to submit to whatever Brian asks of him.

“Sorry,” Brian says. “A hundred years a prophet will do that to you.

“I… really like this, by the way,” he adds, nodding with his chin at the braid draped over Tim’s shoulder. “Suits you.”

“Won’t deny I’m fond of seeing you crucified,” Tim fires back lamely, ducking his head as a blush not inspired of Brian’s burning hot body warms over his already flushed face.

“Hardly a crown of thorns,” Brian smiles.

Then, far softer as to almost be a whisper in Tim’s scalp, “I’ve missed you,” and a small dam of self preservation utterly breaks within Tim. 

Possessed only of a singular _want_ , Tim surges up, climbing the last of Brian’s prostrate form, relishing the burns he weathers for his haste and singeing their mouths together as he kisses his friend, his lover, for all the hundred and a half years he’s been denied their companionship.

“You better pray this world ends soon,” Tim growls, his lips charred, his tongue scorching as he pulls pantomime breaths from Brian’s slack mouth. “Because I am _not_ waiting forever.”

“Mm?” Hums Brian. "Whatever could you possibly be waiting for.”

Tim laughs, giddy and far too warm in far too many places.

“Is this blasphemy,” he breathes. 

“Of several kinds, yes,” Brian says. “What do you suppose our dear Father Galahad would think, hm? Kissing the Prophet.”

“You’re the devil.”

“And you’re a doe-eyed demon, love. So I’d say we’re perfectly suited.”

Tim pulls back, his face surely a thing of scarlet.

“Unbelievable,” he says, swooping in for another devious kiss

“To some,” Brian sighs fondly against his mouth. “I’d say you and Galahad are neck and neck in terms of questionable devotion.”

“Mm, give yourself some credit. You’re a catch.

“Also,” Tim presses mischievously, “I doubt Galahad will be fucking you anytime soon so—”

Brian snorts, and Tim goes for one more melting kiss before pulling back.

“I’ll ahm, try not to get myself stranded so long next time,” Brian offers with a grin.

“As if I’ll let you out of my damn sight for the next dozen centuries,” Tim derides.

“Mm, fair. What’s the plan, then? I mean, I think you’re right, should probably get Nastya’s opinion on this.”

“That. Raph, too.”

“Good call.”

“Then I guess it’s: keep Jonny from killing too many people, and I think everyone else should behave themselves. Look at that!” Tim gestures widely to nothing at all. “A whole contingency plan.”

“Brilliant as ever,” Brian says warmly, smiling down at Tim.

Which, ah yes he’s… still kneeling isn’t he. 

“Any, um, idea? When Galahad might be back?” He asks, suddenly shy again, gaze training on Brian’s midriff.

“I couldn’t say,” the Drumbot answers. “I can’t pin down what he’s trying to save in you, but he’s definitely taken an interest.”

“Lucky he found me, though. Doubt I’d have looked for you here.”

“I’m glad you did.”

Tim’s stomach takes a swan leap to his toes, and he shakily looks up at Brian, mouth aching all over again, blood hot and wanting.

“I should probably get back to the ship,” he says, sans any conviction to do that at all. 

“Probably,” Brian echoes, similarly insincere.

“Let everyone know what’s going on.”

“Mhm.”

“And uh… you know,” with each word, Tim finds himself rising up to meet Brian again, climbing the heat of his torso, a torturous ascent to his lips.

“So we can—”

His words fade to irrelevance, Brian ducking down, angling swiftly, refitting the gap between them

“You taste like blood,” Tim murmurs, half a whisper, half a growl, unable to stop himself from swiping his tongue at the corner of Brian’s scorching mouth.

“Don’t,” Brian hitches, and Tim flinches, not chastised, but certainly aware he’s threatening to drag them both down a rabbit hole of desperation neither of them can afford to indulge at present.

Reluctant to his bones, Tim tears himself away from Brian’s lovely, burning body.

“I’ll—we’ll be back,” he amends.

“The sun’s on a twelve hour cycle,” Brian says, voice strained in a way that reassures Tim this goes both ways, that the rest of this is just a trivial interim. “There’s about two left today, past that should give you plenty of cover. I don’t know where Galahad stays, but it’s not here so—”

“So, perfect,” Tim finishes for him. “Midnight heist it is.”

That gets Brian properly smiling again, and Tim beams right back at him. 

“You should probably go now, before Galahad comes back and starts asking questions.”

“And what about you?”

“We’re hardly conversational,” Brian scoffs. “He _beseeches_ me, Tim. Literally.”

“Ugh, shame,” Tim puts on a yawn and stretch, just because. “Poor bastard doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

“Rather. Now would you please get back to the crew before I have to watch you drool through another sermon?”

“ _Not_ fair,” Tim jabs an accusing finger at Brian. “It’s the… _charisma_ , okay?”

“Whatever you say, love.”

“Fuck you.”

“Hopefully soon, if you’d be so kind as to get a move on.”

“Alright, alright,” Tim wavers to his feet, rubbing his sore knees. “I’m going, okay?”

Though not before moving in again and placing one last kiss on Brian’s softly smiling mouth. Truly, Tim would prostrate himself here for years, but that’s unfortunately not ideal, so he maps the burns on his lips with his tongue, and contents himself with the fact that, at the very damn least, there’s a plan in place.

“Two hours you said?” This, breathed in the space Tim begrudgingly supplants between them as he pulls away.

“Yeah, it gets fairly quiet around here after dark. Maybe make it four, give the saloons some time to clear out.”

“Right. Will do.”

“Till then?”

“Yeah.”

It’s something of a miracle that Tim actually makes it outside the church, every instinct berating him, wailing to turn around and have Brian then and there. But he does—make it, that is, though pauses a second as the church's doors creak shut behind him to draw two fingers over his lips, sucking in a sharp breath at the tender burns. Reveling in the sensation.

Thus preoccupied, he doesn’t catch the figure lurking to his left, watching keenly his every move. They’re a decent enough distance away to be little else save a silhouette in his periphery, but certainly, they’re no stranger.

And so Galahad watches, chewing contemplatively on a cigarette. Watches everything about Tim, hungry eyes taking judicious stock with an interest that hasn’t quite revealed itself fully to the preacher. He watches, most of all, that hand, and the care it takes as Tim touches his mouth, rawer now than when Galahad first found him in the bar, found himself drawn to those pretty lips. 

No doubt, he’ll see the same indecency stained upon the Prophet. 

And that burns something in the preacher, something yet unnamed—a dangerous, sinful nascence. For more than ire at these indiscretions, Galahad finds himself wanting, and in too many ways to distinguish, but he’s no fool. He’s plenty familiar with the Lord’s baser tests, with the pathetic desires of the body. He knows. He _knows_. 

Oh, but still he looks at Tim, and he wants, and he _wants_. 

And that he doesn’t immediately loathe Tim for this, doesn’t howl down fiery justice upon this stranger and his terrible temptations… it doesn’t bear thinking about. 

And were anyone watching Galahad as he watches Tim, they would see a man sound of stature and discipline. They’d see perfect stoicism, and meditative piety, and a cigarette flicked to the dirt and ground to dust by a steadfast heel. They would see nothing revealed of the preacher’s growing frustration. Nothing of the low fire lit in his belly as he rakes his gaze over angelic curls and a wicked mouth. They would see nothing save a man of the cloth, cutting faith in the heart of this gone astray town. But he will not be led the same. He will not allow this lapse of integrity to burrow anywhere deeper than skin—than bone, if he really must. He will not be made undone like this.

All the better, then, that Tim takes his leave. There’s a decided intention to his step, too, the way his coat kicks up behind him, gathering dust at the hem. How his hair falls and flows across his back, his shoulders, undone from its braid. 

It’s nothing of the aloof meandering Galahad first witnessed in the bar, and it quietens the niggling voice in the preacher’s head, the one demanding he follow after.

No, he’ll be back. Of this, at least, Galahad can be certain.


	3. Everybody's asking; do I care

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short but sweet, and a little bit of ;) toward the end
> 
> Chapter titled modified from Rollerskate by Dry the River (shut up I know)

“I’m sorry, he _what_?”

This, from Ivy as Marius and the Toy Soldier exchange delighted glances. Nastya, meanwhile, along with Raph and Ashes all sigh collectively.

“Yeah, you should see ‘im,” Jonny grins, ducking as Tim tries to land a smack to the back of his head.

“Got an altar and everything. Bit shit, but y’know. It works.”

“It’s _not_ like that,” Tim explains, furious that he didn’t think to beat Jonny back to the ship. Of course the bastard was going to spin some elaborate horseshit.

“Sorry, weren’t you too busy snogging?”

“In a church, Tim?” Ashes grins. “Nice.” 

“I–no I mean–thanks, but—”

Tim drags his hands down his face, and Jonny cackles beside him. 

“The important thing,” Tim sighs. “Is that I found him.”

“But you didn’t bring him back!” The Toy Soldier pipes up, waving cheerily as Tim throws it a withering glare.

“Well, if you’d all give me a goddamn second to explain what the fuck’s going on—”

They do, after several more rounds of teasing, though Nastya seems to remain firmly on the side of neutral, only offering her opinion once Tim’s finished.

“I will need to have a proper look at Brian, you’re correct,” she says. “My main concern is the possibility of a symbiotic dependency.”

“Who’s that remind you of,” Jonny snarks, but Nastya ignores him.

“My other worry is that preacher you mentioned. He does not sound amenable to us interfering.”

“Oh, well I mean—”

“That’ll be no problem,” Jonny again, absolute joyful malice in his tone as he throws an arm over Tim’s shoulders, as falsely chummy as you please. “See, our dear padre’s got it _bad_ for Tim.”

“Excuse me?” Tim shoves Jonny off, his voice cracking an octave because he decidedly left out that little morsel of this convoluted fuckery. 

Jonny, of course, does not take the memo, continuing unimpeded, “Oh yeah, should hear the talk about you two. ‘Parently he got uppity about Tim mooching free drinks, except instead of twelve ‘ _Hail Mary’_ ’ Tim got a personal escort to the Prophet.”

“I fail to see how that equates to attraction,” Raph comments, and Tim gives her a pleading look.

“Me neither,” Jonny shrugs, “but talk is, Galahad’s a fucking nutjob, so basic decency essentially means he wants in your pants, asap.”

“ _Jonny_ ,” Ivy adds with that ever so scandalized scoff of hers.

“You are not helping,” Nastya agrees. 

Marius and the Toy Soldier keep giggling together, and Tim regrets having brought this to anyone’s attention save Nastya’s. Should have just let Jonny talk his big game, and address the fallout once he wasn’t reeling from the past two hour’s rather inane succession of happenstances.

“I’m just telling it like it is!” Jonny defends, rather lamely. “Brian’s a messiah, and Tim’s our in. Really, I don’t even see the problem.”

“Why don’t you go shoot some scorpions,” Nastya says, as ever calm to her brother’s awful tirades. “I’d like to talk actual logistics with Tim, and if you’re just going to be a nuisance—”

“The thanks I get,” Jonny hangs his head, but he’s still grinning, so his remorse means fuck-all. 

“Come on, big guy,” Ashes interrupts, heretofore playing wallflower, but they tend to twig when it’s best Jonny take a bit of a hike, and Tim mouths a silent ‘ _thank you_ ’ for their mercy.

“Sure, fine,” Jonny concedes to Ashes’ firm grip on his forearm. “All I’m saying is, if you’re looking for a distraction—”

“ _Out_!” Tim and Nastya bark in unison. 

It still takes some cajoling on Ashes’ behalf, but they eventually succeed, and the atmosphere becomes decidedly less bastardous, Tim finding it all that much easier to think straight.

“One of these days,” he mutters to Nastya, “I’m gonna shoot him and make it stick.”

Nastya laughs, claps him on the back, and altogether Tim feels a little less riled. Beckoning for Raph, then, the three of them take their leave to a more private section of the ship.

That swiftly fades to the headache-y kind of frustration that can only arise of talk-shopping tech nonsense with Nastya and Raph, and Tim can’t even pronounce half the words they throw at him, let alone apply their context to Brian’s situation.

“I think we’re overwhelming him,” Raph says, after a particularly syllabic lecture on… memory cells? Tim thinks?

“Yeah,” he replies. “Just a little.”

“Sorry.”

“S’fine.”

Really, there’s not much point to all of this, not until they can examine Brian in full, a fact Tim points out in the hopes of saving himself further frustration. 

Raph nods but presses, “Well we can’t exactly do anything for another, what did Brian say?”

“Two hours till light’s out, and another two if we want to avoid the bar scene.”

“So it’s in our best interest to theorize what we can,” Nastya adds. “I’d propose we explore the inner levels, too, but we’re just running a bit blind for now.”

“Do you really need me here, then?” Tim asks. “I’ve told you everything.”

“No, yeah sure,” Raph gives an affirming smile, “just thought you’d prefer us over the wolves.”

Tim groans heavily, “Yeah… yeah you’re right. Christ, _why_ do they have to be such assholes about this?”

“Which part?” Raph teases. “Brian or the preacher?”

“Both.”

“Because it’s hilarious, Tim,” she says, bluntly, and Tim glowers in return.

“Whatever,” he says, huffy and slightly too warm at his temples. He doesn’t appreciate this scrutiny, thank you very much.

“You two clearly don’t need me for this, so just… plot amongst yourselves. M’gonna lay down.”

“Tim—” Nastya calls, but he’s already gone. 

He feels marginally placated once he’s barricaded himself in his room and sprawls on his bed with a deep sigh. He’s had so little time to register everything that’s happened, and even now it sits densely impregnable at the back of his mind, a dozen questions and answers and worries all tangling themselves up.

It’s fine. It’ll be fine. They’ll wait till sundown, Raph and Nastya will work their magic, Brian will be back. Perfect. Excellent.

And because of that, there’s no reason to dwell on anything else, no reason to reminisce ever so fondly on the relief that trembled through his core upon seeing Brian. Touching him. Kissing him. There’s absolutely no cause for Tim to trace his fingers back over his lips, charting each tender scar. His mind certainly shouldn’t fixate on those brief and burning seconds, the deference with which he knelt. 

The moan that splits his lips is a gentle thing, fluttery and unused for so very long, and the hand that traces them is his, and is Brian’s, and is… another’s, calloused and wide and commanding.

Is the one that made him kneel, that goes, now, for his throat, fingers splaying underneath his chin, bruising his pulse. 

Then two, both of them, the one still around his neck, the other ambling down his stomach, grinding its palm between his thighs. 

Then another mouth, not metal, pious and sneering, just beside his ear… 

‘ _Seek your salvation, boy_.’ 

Tim startles with a bitten off yelp, bolting upright in his bed, his bearings utterly scattered, his heart pounding at several points of duress. The light that fills his room glows artificial, nothing of the permeating red from the station outside, and a panicked glance to his window reveals pitch black.

He laughs, exhaling hiccups as he falls back against the mattress. His heart still jackhammers behind his ribs, at the side of his throat, and ah… elsewhere. Groaning, he mashes the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to scrub the vestiges of his apparent dream from his mind. He succeeds, somewhat, in part due to it having been little more than sensation alone. The words still ring out between his ears, though, honey-poison in that heavy drawl, and a bolt of heat races to the pit of his stomach.

“Absolutely not,” he groans to his traitorous body. 

He doesn’t know what time it is, let alone how long it’s been since the sun finished its cycle, but he is not keen to parse _this_ fresh new hell, no matter how much time he may have to do so. He’d really convinced himself he was only joking with Brian about the whole charisma thing, but evidently not. Seems his subconscious knows a little more than it was willing to let on, and Tim is not keen to see just how deep this goes. 

A few measured rounds of steady breaths puts him somewhat to rights, and a quick change of pants has him feeling a bit fresher. There yet lingers that discomfiting dissatisfaction, but Tim will sort that with Brian’s assistance. 

Next, it’s a matter of locating Nastya and Raph. Which takes about a minute, the two of them having hardly budged from their initial group session in the galley. 

“Look who’s up,” Raph grins. “Sleep well?”

“Shut up,” Tim mutters.

“Sun’s been out almost two hours,” she continues. Beside her, Nastya’s tinkering away at something, all wires and nodes which Tim might find impressive if it didn’t look like, well, wires and nodes. 

“Heading out soon, then?”

“Just as soon as I can get this—” A sharp little _eep_! chirrups from Nastya’s device, and she gives a crow of satisfaction.

“There we go, all set!” 

“That’s it, then?” Tim asks. “Not gonna tell me what the plan is?”

“You are going to serve as our lookout, and if need be, distraction,” Raph says. “Nastya’s going to run diagnostics. I’m going to take samples. Then we book it before mister high and mighty even knows we were there.”

Which… okay, yeah, sounds about as comprehensive as they can get at this stage, and Tim’s grateful to be spared the more tedious details of whatever diagnostics and samples encompasses.

They depart the Aurora with little fanfare. Apparently Jonny and Ashes are still out in the wastes, as well had Ivy taken the Toy Soldier to catalog the local flora, neither of whom has returned, and Marius has been spending all evening sorting his wardrobe for “a proper spaghetti western vibe.” His words. 

It’s all rather too smooth sailing for Tim’s liking, suspicion knotting heavily in his stomach. At least that’s what he tells himself it is. Certainly it’s not a crest of jittering nerves gnawing him raw at the prospect of running into Galahad, of this all going tits up, or worse.

Or better.

‘ _Stop it_ ,’ he tells his brain.

Unhelpfully, the bastard thing supplies him with the memory of Galahad’s hand on his back as they’d left the saloon. All firm pressure and thick, agile fingers.

“You alright?” Raph gives him a nudge, and Tim sways back to himself. She and Nastya have already geared up, and both stare expectantly at him, eyebrows raised.

“Yup,” he lies, hastily affixing his goggles and mask. “Never better.”

“We’ll be quick and careful,” Nastya assures him, as they tread out into the coal black wastes. “It’ll be fine.”

Tim nods, though it goes unseen in darkness, and their company lapses into amiable silence, Tim leading their posse in the direction of the town’s twinkling lights. 

Overhead and underfoot, a distant few beacons set into the floor and structural pylons make meager constellations with one another, a cylinder of sky and soil embroidered through with their artificial stars. Beautiful, in its right, and so very desolate. Tim can’t imagine what finality the builders of this place had in mind, but they sure conceived an impressive skeleton. Shame it’s destined for ruin, but prophecy is not his burden, isn’t his to speculate or endure. 

And hopefully soon, neither will it be Brian’s.


	4. brimstone in the garden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so turns out there will be occasional pov switches! i don't know owt about religion beyond like, enough to Pretend in fiction, so Galahad's faith is as nebulously specific as I need it to be. that said, if there's any theologians who wouldnt mind being a sounding board, hmu, i might need to pull some actual scripture sometime soon but... we'll see
> 
> anyway! as per, enjoy. some slight warnings for this chapter, the absolute tiniest Smidgiest implication of dubcon, but it's really blink and you'll miss it. just didn't want to jar anyone in case.
> 
> chapter title modified from Little Pistol by Mother Mother

Galahad is not a man prone to indulgence, but he readily recognizes and repents for his occasional vices. Everyone falls victim to one or two in their short, miserable lifetime, and his are the least offensive. Or so he justifies. 

Yes, a cigarette and finger of good whiskey, the Lord can pardon that. 

He otherwise leads a perfectly modest life. Came to Camelot with naught but 16 years of hardship under his belt, the clothes on his back, a bible in his pocket, and the Lord’s fire smoldering his throat, ready to be shared with the wretched masses of this town. Even under the Stone’s thumb, he carved out his meager following, the people far more amenable to tongue-lashings of faith than the crooked law. 

That is, until the Pendragons showed up. 

By then, Galahad had built his reputation as a sanctuary from the Stone’s vicious ways, himself able to confront their ilk head on without fear or reproach. The Pendragons completely undermined that, turning the town to a population of soft-bellied sinners with little to fear but next week’s dust storm.

Galahad has his loyalties, though, mostly older folks too stubborn to try believing anything new and a few passionate types like himself. 

And he has his Prophet.

The Stones had tried to get to him, first, tried to remove him from the town altogether citing civil disobedience, and when that didn’t work, had him strung into a gallows they built around him. The hanged man, he became known as. A spectacle, a punishment. For what? That was never clarified, but it kept the people in line, even had Galahad for a good while, too. 

Until, one day, the hanged man spoke. 

Only to Galahad, mind, for no one else wore their faith so readily as he, and though the messages were cryptic at the best of times, with each careful audience Galahad took—sometimes in the dead of night, sometimes merely in passing—the stronger the preacher’s resolve grew. He was the Prophet’s sole confidant, and together they would lead this world to salvation.

And so, when the Stones were dead, Galahad built his church for the Prophet, and his faith had never known such satisfaction.

That was over 20 years ago. Now he sits on the steps of his humble home. A shack by any standards, but he’s fastidious in its upkeep, and his possessions are irrelevant, besides. He was breathed life for one reason and one reason only, and he’ll be gladly damned for eternity if he ever lets himself stray even a single step from the path the Lord has laid for him. 

Which is why he does not deny himself a smoke and a drink to take the edge away, to blur over the events of the day. To try and obscure the face of the stranger who has occupied his every moment of thought since they parted ways.

He succeeds, mostly, but keeps snagging himself mentally on the last image he took. Of Tim’s fingers upon his lips, smiling and shy and stained. He’d meant to seek the Prophet’s guidance, thereafter, to prove for his own eyes what his heart knew in its furious depths. But something wouldn’t let him, and he turned from his church to brood about town till the sun went out.

And here he is, drinking, smoking, and trying not to contemplate.

It’s proving… difficult. 

Hell, he’s of half a mind to march back there and beg the Prophet’s clarity. In the years since Galahad bequeathed him a proper house of worship, his guidance has oftentimes elucidated itself even less to the preacher, but that’s hardly the Prophet’s fault. To parlay the word of God to one so mortal and unworthy, to the pathetic, squirming wretches who come into the world knowing only their sins, that alone is a gift. And any word of the Prophet, no matter its seemingly impregnable depths, is absolute.

Thus, there should be no reason for Galahad’s apprehensions. There should stir no doubts about the Prophet, but that whip-tongued Tim and his clever ruse… it’s got his head all sorts of wrong, and there’s nothing for it but the whiskey. 

He takes it steadily, a vengeful medicine, and soon his mind soothes over, stupored and quiet, and he leans back on his elbows, turning his gaze upwards where the stars proliferate to doubles and triples.

He’s halfway to dozing when a single, cracking gunshot rings out.

Not close, but not far, and he’s on his feet in an instant, staggering from the drink, but adrenaline makes quick work of that, and he braces on the railing. 

In the era of the Stones, shootouts were just another background hum to the town’s operations. The Pendragons have remedied that, somewhat, bribing over gunslingers from the wastes to a career of tenuous loyalty and protection. Things are yet far from peace and tranquility, but it’s been months since the last after-dark altercation, and Galahad quickly pieces two and two together.

Never one to travel fully light, he pats the pistol at his side before stumbling out into the street, determination singing in his veins. He both has every and absolutely no conviction about what he’s going to come upon. About _who_ he’s going to confront. Who could it _possibly_ be shooting up his town, sowing chaos, upending everything he’s worked for in less than 24 hours.

In his singular haste, however, Galahad quite forgot the _other_ newcomer he’d witnessed slinking into his church with perhaps even more dastardly intention writ across his smug face. Which leaves him reeling a little bit, when he barrels into the town square to see not the angelic visage of his expected quarry, but instead that other man with too many belts and too little wherewithal to be considered even politely human.

Him and another, in fact. Lord in heaven, is there no end to these vultures? And it’s them the many-belted-man has his gun trained on, and who… it would appear he has shot. His partner merely laughs, draws their own weapon, and aims a bullet in the other’s shoulder. More laughter, and Galahad can only watch from his vantage point, pressed to the wall of the alley he’s hiding in, baffled and alarmed and—

“What the _fuck_ are you two doing!”

And now a _third_ joins the fracas, a figure Galahad finally recognizes, even more furiously pretty in his rage, and the preacher’s pulse leaps a mile up his throat, his eyes tracking Tim’s every move with razor keen scrutiny.

“Havin’ some fun,” answers the belted man.

“Jonny started it,” says the first partner. 

“And Ashes didn’t stop me,” the man, Jonny, rebukes.

“I don’t care who the hell started it,” Tim snaps. “We’re trying to help Brian, and you two morons are going to draw attention!”

“Yell a little louder, then, why don’t ya?” This from Jonny.

“Sorry,” the other one, Ashes, says, wholly insincere. 

In the distance, a rise and fall of voices carries on the wind, familiar voices, at least to Galahad, Gawain’s foremost among them. This… could be very interesting, indeed, and the preacher stays glued to his wall, watching the party prick their ears and scramble.

“Shit shit shit,” this from Tim, all that poise from earlier vanished completely.

“Get back to the ship,” he orders, jostling his partners who, Galahad notes, are still bleeding quite profusely from their respective wounds, and neither of which appear to bear any grievance against either person.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Jonny says. “Would _love_ to meet the law– _ow_!”

Galahad only just catches the glint of Ashes’ pistol cracking the side of Jonny’s head, but the sound of metal meeting bone is enough to get his own head aching.

“ _Je_ sus, okay fine! M’going!”

“What about you?” Ashes directs this at Tim—still a flurry of panicked gestures and pacing, him.

“I’ll be fine,” he grits out. “Just fucking go, please?”

“Roger,” Ashes salutes.

The next minute and a half are hard to keep track of. Much later, Galahad will attempt to parse and piece together what, precisely, inspired him to act so rashly, not that he’ll come to any conclusions that sit at all right with his conscience.

At present, it goes something like this.

Ashes and Jonny abscond into the darkness, leaving Tim stranded in the square, casting about wildly. Gawain’s voice carries dangerously close, and there’s no feasible time or cover for Tim to get away. Part of Galahad delights in this, is viciously eager to see the man dragged lower from the pedestal he made the preacher climb earlier.

He can’t, though.

Doesn’t.

Is suddenly loping from his own shadows, thundering straight for Tim. 

The man has a solid three and a half seconds to register who’s approaching him, and shock paints a lovely shade in his wide eyes.

They promptly roll to the back of his head, as does the rest of him crumple to the ground, as Galahad lands a swift, decisive uppercut with his elbow to Tim’s left temple, knocking the man unconscious with the single blow. 

Just in time, too, as the square floods suddenly with torchlight and silhouettes. As predicted, Gawain heads the small group, most of it the nightwatch, and some his own personal posse. 

“Father?” He squints at Galahad.

“Bandits,” the preacher answers, voice level and gruff. 

“Went that way,” he jerks a thumb in the direction of Jonny and Ashes’ departure, wholly unconcerned with their safety.

“What about him?” Gawain waves his pistol’s muzzle at Tim’s sprawled form. “Never seen him before.”

“Just blew in, met him today,” Galahad says, his nerves at last catching up to whatever the hell he’s trying to pull off here. “He’s fine, I’ll take care of him.”

Gawain nods, his quota of “civic concern” evidently exhausted.

“That way, you said?” He points, and Galahad nods, and then he’s off, his fellows in tow, their party brimming over with excitement at the prospect of a chase.

And that leaves Galahad and his unconscious, doe-eyed demon alongside one absolutely impossible decision. There’s only one way to rectify his actions _and_ get the answers he wants from Tim. 

He makes it before his brain can get the better of him, stooping down and gathering Tim in his arms, manhandling him into something of a bridal carry. It’s awkward work, not that Tim’s heavy or anything—and Galahad’s far from slight—but his lankiness does not lend much ease, and his right arm ends up flopped down by his side, swinging and knocking against Galahad’s knees with every step. Which are labored in and of themselves, the adrenaline wearing off leaving the preacher sluggish, though his heart races mile upon mile.

Thank the Lord he never sought the quietude of the environs, and it’s only ten minutes till he’s back on his porch and draping Tim against the railing while he props open the door. Inside, his spartan trappings offer up minimal relief to his dilemma, but he doesn’t suspect he’ll be sleeping tonight, so doesn’t fully begrudge leaving Tim to his threadbare mattress. 

At first, Galahad simply dumps him there, but a moment’s hesitation spells his undoing, and he huffily sets about rearranging Tim in a more comfortable array of limbs and hair. The latter is what breaks the preacher’s stoicism, and he can’t help touching much too gently than is really necessary the insufferably perfect curls fallen haphazard across Tim’s face and throat. 

With each lock and strand he pulls away and lays on the pillow, so too do Galahad’s rough fingers brush against Tim’s cheek, his forehead, his neck, soft and warm and fluttering where blood runs subdued beneath ever so fragile skin. 

A brief and debilitating vision, then. A twinge of muscle in the preacher’s bicep, his jaw, and were he not possessed equally of disgust for the temptations of such a baleful body at his discretion, Galahad fears he would surely descend on the man and paint him over with black and blue and deep purple reds.

He goes still, letting the apparition fade. A test from the Lord, no doubt—(there have been… several, over the course of his life)—yet another hurdle for his most faithful acolyte to best. And Galahad does, letting disgust churns thickly in his gut. He pulls away from Tim with a scoff, hot all over with righteous anger.

A crueler man than he would shock Tim awake, perhaps with a kick to the chest or a bucket of freezing water, and start demanding answers then and there. 

More than anything, though, Galahad pities Tim, for the path he has chosen to follow into sin, for the company he keeps that enables it, for the ways in which he seeks, however unintentionally, to infect those most faithful and most forgiving.

And it’s not that Galahad harbors hate for the man, nothing that would inspire true violence or vitriol. His actions tonight were necessary only for removing Tim from the fray of his compatriots. Another path the Lord set in motion. What for? Galahad thinks he’s starting to suss that. For what are a hundred—a _thousand_ —willing congregants to the single, stubborn oak? There’s no pride in drifting hand in hand downstream, and it’s Galahad’s honor to see even the hardiest refutations supplicate to God’s goodness. 

Tim is a test, then, as much as he is a mystery, and Galahad is determined to lay his pages bare, to swallow the scripture of this lost soul and speak it back into the world, obedient and exalting.

At present, that soul remains quiet, passed out on his bed. Galahad watches him a moment longer before tearing his gaze elsewhere. Shuffling to the desk where he labours over his sermons, he fishes out a candle from its topmost drawer and the spare holder. He’s always preferred them to the harsh, faulty electric, and lighting it, he places it on the little table beside the bed. 

It casts sanguine warmth into the room, humble but stubborn in its halo of yellow light that wreaths around Tim, shadows and highlights settling in his hair, the hollows of his cheeks, like spark-ash from the pyre.

“Deliver me, Lord,” Galahad whispers, and turns unsteadily from the bed, though the image lain there scores deep in his mind’s eye. A brand. A beauty.

He takes his leave to the desk, sits heavily, keeps his back to Tim.

Next week’s sermon waits dutifully on the desktop, half finished, and though Galahad knew each word by heart that morning, now he struggles to pull a single syllable from the ether of his thoughts.

So very much may change in an instant, and he never could have expected this to be his yoke, but he’s a strong man. In heart, in body, and in soul, and he will carry himself to completion, toward whatever end this task may bring him to. The Lord saw him here, and will see him through, and Galahad will not question his lot.

Still, he cannot drag to the forefront the address sat incomplete before him, and after nearly an hour of staring and chafing over his lost lament, he decides, simply, to abandon it. To conceive the Lord’s will sans His guiding clarity bodes unto the blasphemous, and there are much more pressing inspirations, besides. 

The sheep-skinned wolf in all his beatific duplicity, for one.

And Galahad’s pen rests heavy in his hand when at last he takes it up, but as ink flows out its syllabic ligature, that weight lifts, conviction a heady thing in the preacher’s euphoria. 

He writes for hours, and not a single word is wasted. Sweat stands on his brow from the exertion, his wrist and fingers creak, his back moans for a second’s reprieve to which he grants only further contrition, sitting ramrod straight until, at last, his inkwell runs dry, and the final serif punctuates his masterpiece.

It strikes him, then, that not once did he seek his Bible for assistance, the verse having slipped freely from his fingers, even such hymns as he has not remembered for years, now. Yet there they bloom upon the page, verbatim, verbose. Virulent in their conviction. 

It’s too much to read over just yet, and he wouldn’t wish to spoil his reverie prematurely. Yes, he supposes he’s allowed to bask in the presence of his own faith.

Tentatively satisfied, only then does he breathe a sigh that brings true consolation, for he is not strayed, and this sermon will prove that irrefutable truth.

Beyond the window to the left of the desk, the sun has begun its daybreak cycle, a filament needle of dusty rose and orange piercing the black in half. All at once, Galahad is made aware just how much his body protests having sacrificed what little sleep he allows for an entire evening of rapturous orchestration.

The Lord giveth epiphany as surely as He does sciatica, and Galahad groans as he stretches out the knots and kinks in his back.

“Sleep well, Father?”

And reality barrels straight into the preacher’s sternum like a boot, like the heel he should have landed between the sinner’s ribs when he had the chance.

Whirling around, he’s met with… yet another sight.

Rather, it would seem Tim is incapable of anything but.

He’s awake, of course, and sat on the edge of the bed, he looks not at the preacher, but at his own hands, his elbows leaned on his knees, his posture stooped, his expression lax and heavy with shadows. A bruise drapes heavily down his temple, but either the man doesn’t notice or doesn’t care to draw attention.

“You—” Galahad starts, but Tim cuts him off. 

“What am I doing here.”

More a demand than a question, really, but with just the right note of worry to denote to Galahad Tim’s uncertainty in this situation. Which… well, of course. A man of such secrets and sin has every right to be concerned waking in the preacher’s bed.

“You’re in no position to be asking me anything,” he says plainly, relishing how Tim’s cheek twinges, failing to hide his agitation.

“Fair enough,” comes the equally constrained reply.

“Now,” and here Galahad rises from his chair, “you can make this mighty easy on yourself, son. We can have a nice, civil conversation, and you can tell me exactly what it is you’re really doing in my town. 

“Or,” and somehow he’s carried himself over to the bed, is standing now, towering over Tim’s form. “I can put that pretty smile six feet under and teach you what real punishment is.”

“Not smiling,” Tim points out, pointedly grimacing, and Galahad’s of half a mind to forgive him the cheek for his honest fear, alone.

“Civil conversation it is,” he rebuffs. “I’ll even let you stay on the bed.”

“How generous.”

The resounding crack of flesh upon flesh rings out almost before Galahad realizes he’s struck Tim. Open-palmed and stinging, and his hands aren’t done, it seems, one going for the roots of Tim’s hair, the other curling vice-like around his jaw, hobbling any attempt for Tim to look anywhere save directly at the preacher

“Are you sure you’d like to test me,” he says coolly, employing the tone his father once used so many years ago in his troublesome youth.

It works the same for Tim, his cheeks draining pale, his eyes flickering as they fail to escape Galahad’s gaze.

Slowly, and ever so carefully as not to test the strength of the preacher’s hand in his hair, Tim shakes his head.

“Good,” Galahad says, and releases him.

“Anything I can do to dissuade you from further beatings?” Tim mutters, his fingers mapping the finer bits of purple and red now adorning half of his face.

“Hold your tongue till I say you can use it,” Galahad answers.

Tim goes redder for that, a detail Galahad ignores as he drags over the stool from his desk and plants himself in front of Tim.

“Those thugs you were with last night,” he starts, recalling with great disquietude the merriment of the obscene spectacle. “Friends of yours?”

“Something like that,” Tim answers, squinting up at Galahad. 

“Ya’ll take often to shooting each other?”

“Sometimes. They’re not dead, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Son, I couldn’t care less if they were picked clean already. What I wanna know is why _you_ were skulking around in the dead of night.”

“Meeting a friend,” Tim answers promptly. Too fast, in fact, and his glare falters, his eyes flashing. 

“Mhm, and what friend was that? Seems you had ‘em all there in the square.”

“If you don’t mind me saying,” Tim does, indeed say, “I don’t think that’s much in the way of your business, Father.”

“It’s my business, _boy_ —” Galahad growls, leaning down close, jabbing two fingers under Tim’s chin. “When you’re bringing scum to my town and defiling the Lord’s will.”

A beat.

And then Tim laughs, the sound so bright and honest, it throws Galahad entirely, and he stares, perplexed, as Tim’s demeanor shifts like a snake strike, any vestiges of nerves or fear wiped away by a cruelly amused grin.

“S’that what this is about?” He asks between breaths. “You knocked me out and dragged me to your bed because I snogged your prophet?”

Another slap, a proper blow of force that snaps Tim’s head sideways, but little does it serve to dislodge his wild smile, and it worsens his laughter, still.

“You’d best shut your mouth if you know what’s good for you!” The preacher barks, and Tim hiccups, biting down on his lower lip, but tears gather at the corners of his eyes, and he breaks all over again.

“Sorry, sorry,” he gasps. “M’sorry, this’s just… Christ, yeah, this seems about right.”

Galahad hasn’t the faintest what he means by that, but his ire boils steadily, and he gets two fists in Tim’s collar, gives a firm shake, and that shuts the man up for half a second.

“I saved you,” he snarls. “You know that? Could'a thrown you to the watch, let them have their way. Pretty thing like you wouldn’t last an hour, I reckon, so I opened my home to you, my church and all, and this is what you’ve got to show for it?”

He shoves Tim, sending him toppling backwards on his elbows.

“Gotta say, son, I’m disappointed.”

And Tim’s smile finally falters, settling into something jarringly cruel, his eyes blinking dark and cold.

“I don’t recall asking your opinion, Father.”

“Nor do I, giving it,” Galahad spits back. “The Lord speaks through me, so I speak only the truth.”

Tim scoffs, “Would benefit you to get some wider perspective.”

“I know the world for what it is. It’s _you_ I’m trying to understand.”

And there it is. Simple, effective, honest and forthright, and Galahad feels oddly relieved, his anger dissolving to the methodical resolve of his ever tenacious faith. There’s worth in this. In Tim. There’s a reason he’s trying to save this terrible, stubborn man. 

But then:

“Don’t.”

And Galahad returns to the present to find Tim stood from the bed, now staring him down. 

“There’s nothing in here to know, Father,” he leverages a finger at his head, almost pantomiming a pistol. 

Then that hand travels down, fanning over his heart, “And certainly nothing to save.”

“That’s not your decision to make,” the preacher says, moving in and taking that hand between his own, pressing it between the steepling of his fingers.

“Your’s is not my god,” Tim replies. 

“He could be.”

“No,” and Tim pulls his hand from Galahad’s, not quickly, not terribly perturbed, he just sort of slips away, leaving the preacher feeling strangely bereft.

“Whatever you’re trying to see in me, it’s best you just leave it alone.”

“And why’s that?”

Irritation settles ticklish in Galahad’s throat, the preacher unused to having homily turned back on him in quite so concise a manner.

“I’m nothing worth saving, Father,” Tim answers plainly. With a shrug, even. “Not by your hand.”

“And what if I try,” Galahad presses.

Tim shrugs again, his lips drawing tight at the corners.

“Then you’ll be pretty well fucked.”

It’s Galahad’s turn to laugh, and he does, a sound wholly desiccated of any honest mirth.

“And you still haven’t answered any’ve my questions,” he says, once he’s recovered.

“I don’t believe I have anything to answer for.”

“Don’t you, though?”

Tim sighs, arms lain heavy across his chest in a standoffish barricade.

“Fine. What do you want to know.”

“For one?” The preacher levels his best disappointed glare. “Th’fuck were you doing kissing the Prophet.”

Tim rolls his eyes, “Divine inspiration?”

“Try again.”

“Actually,” and Tim glares right back at him, twofold, “how _do_ youknow about that, anyway? Spying, were we?”

“You came out of my church looking like the devil himself had bruised that mouth of yours,” Galahad rebuffs. “Hard not to figure.”

“Oh, so your prophet’s the devil, now? And, _goodness_ , not so innocent, ourselves. Staring at a man’s mouth, _tch_ , might give the wrong impression there.”

Galahad feels scarlet climb his cheeks, high and ruddy.

“I’d sooner kiss a snake,” he grits out, and Tim smirks, flicking his tongue over his teeth.

“I’ve been told I’m just as charming, you know.”

“And I’m not keen for poison. Funny how that works, innit, boy?”

“Hi _larious_ , Father.”

They’re getting nowhere like this, maddening circles of cheap quip after snide rebuke, and Galahad’s of half a mind to shove Tim back out to the streets and let someone else deal with him for a while.

“And what about your friends, then,” the preacher says, hoping a shift in subject might illuminate _something_ , even if it’s redundant.

“What about them?”

“Can you maybe explain what the hell they were doing shooting each other up like that?”

“Why else,” Tim answers, as if that’s meant to clarify anything. “Jonny probably had one too many. He gets feisty when he’s drunk.” 

“You expect me to believe your friends, what, do this for fun?”

“Sure, if you like.”

“I don’t.”

Another shrug, “Not my problem.” 

“It is if I bring this to the sheriff.” 

“By all means, Father,” Tim gestures a sweeping hand toward the door, bowing dramatically.

Galahad doesn’t budge, and Tim sniffs.

“Didn’t think so. Too bad for you, hm? I’m just far too interesting to lock away.”

“What you are is pure infuriating.”

“Thank you kindly, I do try my level best.”

This is pointless, beyond that, even, and exhaustion is starting to nip at Galahad’s mental heels. 

“Just go,” he says after an arduous stretch of silence, and digs his thumb and forefinger into his eyes, wincing at the resulting burn.

“Pardon?”

“I said _go_.”

“And here I was eager to hear you proselytize.”

“ _Out_ ,” Galahad lunges, shoving Tim for the door, then through it, his head addled by a discordant clashing of anger and disappointment as his body dictates itself on autopilot. 

He comes to, stooped over his desk, palms braced on the edge as he stares down his feverish sermon. And it’s blessedly quiet, both within his humble home and his head. Without the antagonism of Tim’s presence, the preacher can actually _think_ for a second, something he’s lacked the relief of the past day. 

Christ, has it really only been that? So short a time for a stranger to arrive and dismantle his obedient curations. Which puts him in mind of the Prophet. He still has yet to return to the church, to seek him for answers, too. If Tim insists on being so obtuse, that really is the only answer, unless he feels inclined to let the Lord lead him. 

Which he does not. Galahad knows when it’s his duty to act proactively, to dissect the world for himself. This warrants his full attention, and his discipline. The Lord may guide, but He only helps those who help themselves.

Of course, Galahad can spare a short while until he’s certain Tim has cleared off. He reckons that’s barely the last of the man; strays so eagerly return to the fold, after all, and sans the rush of endorphins brought by the man’s presence, exhaustion settles thickly in the preacher’s limbs. 

He sags onto the bed, still warm and slightly molded to the shape of Tim’s body, and hangs his head in his hands, massaging his temples. When he gathers enough strength to lay back, properly, he keeps his eyes open, trained half lidded on the ceiling.

He thinks of nothing as he lays there, not of flashing eyes and chestnut ringlets. Not of blood hot skin or pretty, used lips. 

Well… at the very least, he tries not to, and that has to count for something.


	5. I know that blessed conjugal; I could not be alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes sorry for how long this took, i had it done but timeline stuff blah blah, yk the drill. huge thanks to @empressventure on tumblr for beta-ing and being as always v delightfully encouraging.
> 
> some warnings i suppose? for brief mentions of domestic abuse (nothing main-char relevant) and slight implication of animal death (in jest, but just in case)
> 
> as ever, pls enjoy and lmk what's gucci, kings <3
> 
> chapter titled modified from Everlasting Light by Dry the River (srsly at this point just listen to them if u havent and you'll basically bc able to plot how this is all gonna go down and also theyre such a severely underrated band)

“Tim’s back!”

This, trilled from the Toy Soldier as Tim slumps his way into the main hub of the Aurora. To his regrettable entrance, everyone is present save Ivy and Marius, and there’s no escaping the barrage of questions hurled his way.

“What the hell happened?”

“We were almost done wi–”

“Did the watch get you?”

“Holy shit what’s th–”

“Hey!” Tim barks, successfully stunning them all silent, if only for a few seconds.

Nastya broaches him, then, eyes narrowed, one brow raised as she cocks her head to get a better look at the bruise on his temple.

“Galahad,” Tim answers promptly, and a ripple of gasps and grins carries around the room. 

“Knew it,” Jonny says. “ _Knew_ he had a thing for you.”

“What on earth did he do?” Raph budges up beside Nastya.

“Knocked me out,” Tim replies, wincing as Raph presses a bit too hard. “Was telling off those twats,” he waves a hand at Jonny and Ashes. “They tell you they were fucking shooting each other?”

“In fact, they did,” Nastya mutters, throwing Jonny a glare to match Tim’s. “They were kindly forthcoming with your last whereabouts.”

“Yeah, well, you’re fucking welcome,” Tim spits at the two assholes in question. “Because I can tell you right now, waking up in the preacher’s bed? Not as fun as it sounds.”

Jonny gives a resounding wolf whistle, and Ashes laughs.

“That bad?” They ask.

“I think,” Tim mutters, swatting Raph away as she makes another go at the bruise, “that _he_ thinks he’s my spiritual chaperone, now—which, yeah, Ashes, _that_ bad.”

“That sounds incredibly silly!” The Toy Soldier pipes up.

“Thanks, I’m _well aware_.”

The Soldier salutes, and Tim sags further in on himself. For all he’s more or less slept, he’s functionally dead on his feet and wants nothing more than to crash out in his room for a few sun cycles.

His mates have other plans, however, and he finds himself jostled into the galley, the crew in tow, and considerably more questions throttled his way. 

“So, why the whole knock out and kidnap angle?” Raph hops up on the nearby counter, kicking her legs.

“Something about the night watch being less than savory,” Tim grumbles.

“Oh yeah, proper animals, them,” Jonny sweeps into Tim’s line of sight, his pistol drawn with a flourish.

“Almost caught up to us, didn’t they?” He aims the barrel at Ashes.

“Yeah,” they affirm, “lost ‘em in the wastes, though. Wasn’t hard.”

“Or all that fun, really,” Jonny continues. “ _I_ wanted to give them a proper hullo.”

“Did you at least get what you wanted?” Tim directs this as Nastya, ignoring Ashes and Jonny as they devolve into their own back and forth.

“Mm, sort of,” she replies. “You know how I said we might need to explore the inner levels?”

“Yeah?”

“Well that’s looking like more of a: definitely going to have to explore the inner levels possibility.”

“Oh...kay. Uh, why?”

“I’d have more answers if we could have talked with Brian but—”

“Yeah, no I know, not ideal.”

Very much not ideal, in fact, and a horrible scare to boot. They’d arrived at the church to find Brian completely unresponsive, and only once Raph had confirmed he was going through an emergency sleep cycle did Tim find his breath again. She was unable to clarify what, exactly, had triggered it, but that was good enough for Tim, and he’d left her and Nastya to their devices, literal and otherwise.

And then: Jonny and Ashes. And an elbow to the head. And all the rest of this fucking nonsense.

“Why,” he mumbles, “why _why_ does it have to be so complicated.”

“Not complicated,” Nastya says. “Just a bit tedious. I’ve located the processor Brian’s connected to. Or, the peripheral cells, at least. I mean… I think. I’ll have a better idea when we actually get there, though we’ll have to go by foot, I can’t see us easily maneuvering Aurora.”

“We?” Tim hedges.

“Told you he wouldn’t want to go,” Raph says sagely. 

“Yeah, someone’s got a preacher to f— _ow_!”

Glancing over, Tim catches both Ashes and the Toy Soldier whack Jonny upside the head, the latter thrusting a thumbs-up Tim’s way.

“What I’ve got to _do_ ,” he says tersely, “is damage control. No fucking thanks to you.”

“You’re welcome,” Jonny leers, earning another smack from the Soldier.

“Don’t be rude!” It admonishes.

“Whatever,” Jonny mutters, stalking for the hall. “F’you need me, I’ll be in town.”

“Do _not_ go anywhere near Galahad!” Nastya calls after him, and Jonny throws the finger over his shoulder, which is about as concrete a concession as they’re likely to get.

“Go with him please?” She gestures at Ashes, who rolls their eyes but kicks off after him. “And _no_ guns.”

“You’re perfectly welcome to stay here, anyway,” Nastya turns to address Tim once the antagonizing parties have departed. “Would prefer it, honestly. Not much you can do, really. We’ve pretty much got it sorted from here.”

“Sounds good to me,” Tim nods over his shoulder. “F’it’s fine by you lot, I’m gonna—”

Raph cuts him off with a wave. “Yeah go on. Kinda dogpiled you there, sorry.”

“Eh, I appreciate it. At least from you two. Any idea when you’re looking to head out?”

“Today? Now? Very soon?” Raph shrugs. “Gotta just get supplies in order. Marius and Ivy went to get some bikes in town, so I guess whenever they get back?”

“Oh, huh,” Tim blinks, somewhat taken aback by the cut and dry straightforwardness. Such is the dream team when Raph and Nastya put their heads together, but he’s still digesting the past 24 hours, so it doesn’t wholly compute.

A lie down, yes, that’s what he’s after, and with a few more formalities exchanged, he’s slumping his way to his room. He pings Aurora to wake him an hour before the sun goes out, then finally, _finally_ topples face first onto his bed.

He lays there a moment, stiff with an unease that fails to resolve itself, but the warm give of proper pillows subdues him steadily enough, and he subsides into a doze. A memory smarts at the back of his mind, mingling with the whorls of sleep fast approaching and the faint throbbing of his temple, a memory of hands upon his face, his brow. Again, they are not metal, but nothing quite comes to fruition, and no visions further accost him.

So he sleeps, and if his dreams veer inadvisably toward a precipice of sibilant prayer and the rough-shod composition of fingers that are not Brian’s, surely that is no fault of his own.

-

What most definitely _is_ his fault, is his decision to return to town that evening. 

The Aurora wakes him on cue, and he lounges for a few moments in the haze of a rest well earned and enjoyed. When the light outside his window shifts to scarlet, he coaxes himself fully awake, watching the blazing construct of glass and filament quieten to its approximate sunset. Then gloaming. Then, at last, twilight, the curved horizon swallowed by navy and purple and the intermittent winking of the pylons.

The ship, when he emerges from his room, is mostly quiet, and a quick sweep reveals that indeed Nastya and Raph have set off. His coming upon Marius and Ivy and the Toy Soldier similarly confirms this.

“Estimated coordinates are about three-ish week’s travel, one way,” Ivy explains. 

She’s poring over some shriveled plant matter, the Toy Soldier waltzing back and forth behind her, giving oo’s and ah’s every time she so much as picks up a pair of tweezers or scratches something in her journal. Marius drapes himself on the tabletop nearby, eyes glazed, watching the scene blandly.

“You uh… what’re you up to, then?” Tim asks, more out of obligation than interest—as well, he’d prefer to avoid drawing undue attention upon himself.

Something tells him his mates won’t look too kindly on his going back into town.

“They’re the plants we gathered yesterday!” The Toy Soldier explains, shrilly. “I found that one!” It points to a mean looking tangle of rusty brambles, and Tim blinks, nods.

“And you?” He addresses Marius. “Thought you were going for a whole western thing.”

“I was,” Marius says, “then I thought, well there’s no actual _west_ here, is there? It’s all just cylinders.”

“And tubes,” Ivy offers, without looking up. 

“Same bloody thing. Also I can’t find my favorite chaps.”

“The assless ones?” Ivy adds.

“Rude!” The Soldier chirps.

“Anyway,” Marius ignores them both. “Saw about as much as I care to this afternoon, the bloke selling us bikes didn’t even want to haggle!”

“He was hoping for ten paces and turn,” Ivy clarifies.

“It’s really not that kind of place,” Tim says, and Marius scoffs.

“Yeah, I know.”

A beat.

And then Tim realizes why it all feels a bit off, why it’s so damn quiet.

“Where… are Ashes and Jonny?”

Ivy finally looks up at this, blinking as if she’s also only just noticed their absence.

“Uh… still out? Probably?” She glances at Marius, shrugging.

“I haven’t seen them,” he says.

“They sure did leave a while ago!” The Toy Soldier adds. “I wonder what they could be getting up to?”

“Don’t be cute,” Tim frowns at it. “Do you know where they are?”

“Not at all!”

“Fantastic.”

“Er, maybe it’s not a good idea to go back to town so soon?” This Ivy calls after Tim as he makes a swift pivot, already stalking away from their party.

“Can’t risk having him on the loose,” Tim calls back, both grateful for this excuse, and dreading whatever bullshit the two of them are going to concoct tonight.

Ivy makes a last ditch effort, “Nastya told me she told them to stay away from Galahad!”

“But she didn’t say to stay away from the church!” The Soldier opines sagely, and even as Tim rounds the corner, he can envisage Ivy’s glare.

TS is right, though. And, prick that he is, Jonny does so love manipulating any available loophole in his sister’s instructions. That, and Ashes’ heretofore sensible company assuages marginally few of Tim’s growing nerves; given last night’s track record, who knows what they’re enabling.

This was supposed to be _easy_ now—just Raph and Nastya off shouldering the brunt—but if Jonny has already done something to compromise what little peace Tim played out with the preacher, or worse, Brian’s situation, well it has been some time since Tim’s razed an entire satellite… 

That’s the anger talking, but it’s a nice thought. Or, maybe not nice, but it’s a thought, a back burner idea. 

Shooting Jonny, he suspects, will likely achieve the same goal, so that’s what he sets his sights on. Locate him and Ashes, waste a few rounds in their heads. Yeah, that’ll be good. And if the night’s still young, he’ll sneak by the church and let Brian know what’s going on. 

Among other… endeavors.

Another plan, another million ways it will almost assuredly go wrong, and Tim is stubborn enough to entertain the slim hope that it won’t. 

Ensuring he’s well armed and kitted up for the trek through the wastes, he departs the ship, retracing his pilgrimage once more to the beckoning oasis of the town aglow and gearing up for its midnight debaucheries. 

At his waist, his prized pistols brace a sturdy weight—eager, even. Yes, it has been some time since there was any good violence, and he knows Jonny and Ashes will happily oblige. How concise a solution, a bullet or three, and Tim has many more than that, besides.

Strangely enough, it never does cross his mind to shoot Galahad, but then, he’s never been possessed of the best foresight.

-

This, in turn, leads him on a rather short trek through the square of the town, mingling easily with the milling patrons of the saloons until a crescendoing ruckus alerts him to what can only be his mates getting up to no good. 

Thankfully, they’ve kept clear of Palfrey’s establishment—which is silly, of course, there’s no reason Galahad would be lurking around there right this very moment—and instead, the vicious cackle of one Jonny-in-the-throes-of-a-poker-victory rings out from a similarly run-down joint, opposite. 

Inside, Tim’s hardly fazed to find most of the available tables gathered together and heavily laden with playing cards, whiskey, and coin varying in its respective cache in front of each player. A half dozen strangers cloister around the fray like vultures, glaring daggers at Jonny with his obscene pile of cash, and behind whom reclines Ashes, propped against the wall, observing the kettle of ill-fated gamblers through a veil of thick smoke, their smirk one Tim all too easily recognizes the true deceptions of. 

This cannot possibly end well.

“Tim!” This from Jonny as he plucks a cigarette from the breast pocket of the man nearest his left. “Took you fuck’n long enough, c’mere! We’re just about to deal a new hand.”

Tim doesn’t budge, even as the entire room’s-worth of eyes turn on him, he weathers his cool with a frown of staunchly unimpressed boredom. Still, it wouldn’t do to go standing in the door all night, and he takes a quick few strides. Jonny, for his insufferable part, holds his hands wide, as if offering an embrace, a ruse Tim snubs as he makes for Ashes, instead. 

“Ah, you’re no fucking fun,” Jonny grumbles, his grin audible, and the eyes at Tim’s back gradually slough off as the mate continues, “Right! Deuces wild–” 

“What the _fuck_ are you two doing,” Tim hisses in Ashes’ ear, an unpleasant wave of deja vu warming over his already jittery pulse.

“Playing cards,” they answer. “Also, you’ve got to get some new material.”

“ _What_?”

“Look,” Ashes glances over, lips tight around their cigarette. “M’not gonna let him start shit, okay? See that guy over there?” They nod, and Tim follows the gesture to a mean looking old sod with a face more scar than skin. In front of him sits a mound of coin only slightly larger than Jonny’s, and his weathered hands grip his cards like a clamp, impressively steady for the arthritis that clearly eats away his knuckles.

“Never lost a hand in fifty-three years, apparently. And he’s got a horse”

“I–” Tim stares at Ashes a second, squinting. “What does any of that mean?”

“Jonny wants the horse,” they explain. “Offered to buy it, then insulted the guy’s, er, everything, when he wouldn’t sell, so they’re settling it over cards.”

“I… what? Th’hell are we going to do with a horse?”

“So you think he’s gonna win?”

“That–no— _what_?”

“I think he can do it. And if he can’t, well…” Ashes flashes aside their coat, revealing their gun nestled at their hip.

“Absolutely the fuck _not_ ,” Tim spits, earning Ashes elbow to his ribs when this pricks the ears of two of the players. 

Tim gives them both a hard stare, and they shift in their seats, turning swiftly back to the game.

“Jesus, when did you get so soft? Also, not your call, mate,” Ashes says. “I’m fine to deal with the watch if it comes to that, but you don’t need to be here.”

“Yes I do.”

“No, you don’t. Go check on Brian or something, seriously, we’ve _got_ this.”

Tim chews the inside of his cheek, grinding it to a sting of raw flesh and seeping blood, a nasty habit both to quell his anger and facilitate difficult decision making. Which puts more stock in this situation that it really warrants, the bullshit from last night tingeing over a perfectly civil game that has every right to escalate however it sees fit. That’s just poker. And Jonny is being remarkably composed, ceding coolly to a substantial loss without so much as a frown right before Tim’s eyes. Honestly, it’s more unnerving than anything, but it’s… something. 

“Fine,” he bites out, “fine, okay, _sure_. But I swear to fuck if you two start another shootout–”

“Mhm, sounds good,” Ashes doesn’t even bother looking at him. “Tell Brian I say hi.”

“Do it yourself,” Tim mutters, and stalks away. Hardly the resounding send off he’d have liked, but they’re not worth it, them or Jonny. 

Who he also pointedly ignores as he leaves the saloon. A roar of voices carries out after him, Jonny’s foremost among them, delighted and cruel, and Tim shudders. If the poor bastard he’s playing for keeps has any decent sense, he’ll just give the horse over now. 

Either way, it’s none of Tim’s concern, and he shrugs off his irritation, hunching back into the midnight melee, and veering in the direction of the church. 

His feet carry him quickly there before he has much of a mind to consider what he’s doing, and there’s several too many people in the square who will surely see him go in, which has him pausing and once more reconsidering every life choice that has brought him to this moment.

That is until a nondescript shape slips by him and into the church, leaving Tim to wonder if he’s just glimpsed a spectre. Emboldened, he cracks open one of the doors, and indeed spies a silhouette approaching Brian’s altar. Nothing of their posture or speed denotes ill intent, and Tim watches, perplexed, as the figure prostrates at the Drumbot’s feet.

Before he can think better of it, Tim slips inside and keeps a silent vigil at the back-most row of pews. The figure doesn’t move, and makes as little sound, though the rhythmic mumbling suggests a prayer of sorts, which continues for some time. Disinterest claims Tim’s concern after a solid five minutes of motionless muttering, and he lets his eyes wander.

Like the night prior, a few dozen paraffin lamps flicker along the walls and behind the altar, throwing a warm ambiance into the building, not quite the scorch of the sun nor the white cut of electricity, either—a peculiarity of Galahad’s, no doubt. Tim had admired it, inasmuch as he allowed himself, last night, and does so again, now. By the grand standards he’s seen erected across multitudes of star system, the church is a rundown shack, but beauty thrives in even the most adverse conditions, and the crumbling beams and plaster walls and rough-sanded pews warm over with the light of the sputtering flame and oil. 

Which doesn’t even account for the veritable shower of sharp, copper glints that jump off Brian—all ochre gold and umber—but the muted shadows dull even him to a chiaroscuro contemplation, everything melding together, all sweet and soft and sacred.

Lost in the gentling tide of light and dark, Tim about near misses the mystery figure departing, their worship evidently sated, and in their still hunched state, they fail to notice Tim at all. A brief pang of anticlimax makes a stab at his chest, but he’s had enough altercations to last him the week and, finding that the doors can thankfully still be locked from the inside, he barricades himself and Brian alone. 

It’s a long trek down the aisle to the altar, a balm of reverence overtaking him in his approach, and he arrives at Brian’s feet with his breath heavy between his lips, his heart pounding. Only when bright eyes beam down at him, a smile in soft pursuit, does it twig for him he may, perhaps, have been labouring under some undue stress.

“You’re awake,” he says, fondly, stupidly, though mostly the latter.

“So I am.”

Tim laughs, a quiet hush so as not to disturb the odd sanctity of the moment.

“We already came and went, you know? Me, Nastya, and Raph. You were in a sleep cycle. Scared the shit out of me.”

It’s Brian’s turn to laugh. Wheezy and disused. 

“Ah, I’m sorry,” he says. “That happens with the sun, sometimes. Not often, don’t worry, that’ll be the first time in a few years.”

“Superb timing,” Tim replies, eager to be done with these niceties, save he’s grateful to know this is a recurring fluke unlikely to give them further issue.

“They’re off, then?” Brian asks.

“Mm?”

“Nastya and Raph.”

“Oh! Yeah, no they left this afternoon. On foot, er, bike, I guess. It’s a few weeks each way, according to Ivy. I didn’t see them off.”

“Bad terms? Wouldn’t let you come with?”

“No uh—shit—I… really didn’t want to bring this up tonight–”

“Love–” and it’s so easy for Tim to imagine a careful hand reaching out, soothing his cheek, coaxing his head back around because he’s let it fall sidelong, afraid of what he might give away if he looks too long at Brian.

But he does, he looks anyway, because Brian is right there and beautiful in the lamplight and there’s very little cause for his reticence because Galahad is just a pointless, vexing human, but it all feels so strange and invasive and portentous and thrilling, and—

Brian, yes. Brian who loves him and who’s looking, now, searching him out, unspooling his barricades.

Perhaps it’s a bit rash, but the doors are locked, and Brian’s bathed in rust and gold, and without the day’s scorch, his lips burn a little bit less as Tim surges up and kisses him. He’s still marked for it, still tests his tongue against soreness and sting, and if he does so without actually putting very much distance between him and Brian—in fact, none—well that just saves time. Space and time, since it’s all they have, and sighs to share while Tim’s grabs desperately at Brian’s incapacitated body, goes from shoulders to face to jaw to hips, like he might never find a place to settle.

“Think,” Brian says between Tim’s breaths, “you should probably tell me what happened last night.”

“Or I could keep kissing you,” Tim murmurs, placing the suggestion on Brian’s tongue as he works his way back into the Drumbot’s mouth. 

“A lovely way to waste the evening, I’m sure,” Brian replies, “but I’d also like to know what’s going on.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have been asleep.”

“ _Tim_.”

Tim pulls back, impatience thick in his throat with a grim sigh.

“Okay,” he says, “okay, _okay_ , fine, yes. Just promise me we can get back to–” he gestures between the two of them, “– _this_ afterwards.”

Brian rolls his eyes, but his smile betrays him.

“Go on,” he encourages, and Tim exhales again, steadies himself.

“Well,” he starts. “For one, it seems our preacher friend may be more of a liability than we thought.”

  
  
  


He tells Brian everything. From the start of their midnight data mining mission, to the interim of Jonny and Ashes’ profoundly annoying antics, and, finally, the absurdity of waking in Galahad’s bed and the pseudo-theological battle of wits that ensued.

Brian listens intently, lets Tim wend his way through the details. Never the most eloquent with summation, him—Jonny’s better for the whole… narrative flow, thing—but Tim gets there eventually, the bases covered, the long and short, etcetera, et al, and by the time he’s done, Tim honestly couldn’t care less either way, swooping back in for the kisses he feels himself rather owed for all he’s put up with.

“M’sorry, you had, to go through, all that,” Brian gets out between Tim’s breaths

“Better be,” Tim grumbles, and turns his head so Brian can get a nice, long look at the bruise spilled down his temple. “Y’see this? Fuckin’... third date territory, this, and he hasn’t even had the decency to buy me a drink yet.”

“You’re insufferable,” Brian remarks. “Now, come here.”

Tim leans in, cheek first, and sighs as Brian kisses his egregious wounds.

“Better?”

“Mm, it’ll have to do.”

“You know,” Brian smiles against his temple, “I’ve heard tell of this thing called praying. Heard it can solve just about any problem.”

“Nice try,” Tim murmurs. “I know you just want to see me on my knees.”

“Perhaps.”

“Well!” Tim pulls away with a wicked sneer. “You’ll have to wait. A few weeks, eh? I’m sure we’ll manage.”

“You’re taking this all rather well, love,” Brian says.

“No reason it shouldn’t work,” Tim replies. “I’m trying to stay positive, thank you.”

Brian shrugs, insofar as his altar permits. “By all means. I just… do worry a bit. Galahad’s the—ah—the sink his teeth in type, I’m not sure it’s in your best interests to antagonize him.”

“What exactly am I doing?”

“For one,” Brian affects a stern expression, “sneaking in to see the Prophet. I’m sure that’ll go over really well if he finds out. Again.”

“I locked the doors,” Tim says.

“I’m serious.”

“Double bolted and everything!”

“ _Tim_.”

Okay, maybe he’s putting on more of a ruse than is justifiable, although he does enjoy hearing his name in that chastising timbre.

“I’ll be careful,” he says.

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Brian, love, light of my _fucking_ stars,” Tim gathers Brian’s face between his hands, thumbs charting his rust-dusted cheeks, “I am _not_ prioritizing some mortal’s ego over seeing you. Sorry, but until we get your wires uncrossed, I’ll damn well be here every night for a snogging—fire and brimstone be damned.”

“Careful,” Brian says, “you might get exactly that.”

“And it’ll be worth it. Now, if you’d be so kind as to shut up…”

The moment goes all soft, again, a slow slide of lips and smiles and sighs as Tim drinks his fill of Brian’s mouth, aching all the while if he could just get Brian’s hands free enough to bruise something a little more lasting into his own waist.

“Actually, I could use your help a bit.”

“Mm?”

By now, Tim’s tipped his head back to afford Brian access to his throat, stretched on his tiptoes to accommodate the angle.

“With a prayer,” Brian breathes across his collar, a cashmere rush of syllables that sends Tim trembling, hands shooting up to grip Brian’s shoulders for support.

“Nn?” 

_A perfectly esteemed reply, Tim, just brilliant._

“I don’t give them out often,” Brian continues, speaking less salaciously against Tim’s pulse point, but the tremors yet fail to disperse over his skin. “Not so easy composing without the rest of you.”

“A lamentable oversight,” Tim mumbles. 

“Mm. There are special cases though, that woman who came in before you? She asked me for the strength to carry herself through marriage.”

“Sure?”

“Her husband beats her.”

That effectively murders the moment, and Tim leans away, staring at Brian.

“Does this story end with me shooting that bastard in the spine? Because if not, I’d like to propose an amendment–”

“Tim, love, it’s okay.”

“It is _not_ –”

“I’m not going to leave her to fend for herself. She has a sister in a settlement on the other side of the station, and thinks it would be best if she just disappeared.”

Tim squints, quite unable to conceive of why this woman would prefer to go such a convoluted route rather than solve it all with a quick and easy bullet.

But Brian is often swayed to the side of passivity, so Tim entertains him. 

“What do you need me for, then?”

“I told you I sing to them, yeah?”

“Mm.”

“Well, I just think you could lend a bit of, um… vehemence? She was very skittish, but she needs a push.”

“So,” Tim winds his hands in front of himself, as if reeling in his words, “let me get this straight. You want to write a ballad convincing this woman to leave her shithead husband?”

“Sounds daft, I know.”

“Hey,” Tim shrugs, “I have a heart. Sometimes. Sure! Let’s… play white knight or whatever. Stranger things, eh?”

“I’m sensing some ulterior motives at play,” Brian says.

“ _Gosh_ , really? Give the man a prize.”

“Wanker.”

“Twat.”

Brian rolls his eyes, Tim steals another kiss, and then the Drumbot continues, “Think five hours is enough time? I really don’t want to push it, and Galahad tends to prep a few days early for mass. I was actually pretty worried when he didn’t come in this morning.”

“Yeah, afraid I’m too much of a catch, love. I’ll have your man wrapped ‘round my finger in no time.”

“I’m shaking in my boots.”

Tim grins, “Good. Now then, shall we? I’d get my guitar, but I also really can’t be arsed.”

“I’m sure we’ll manage,” Brian chuckles.

“Right, well,” and Tim turns on his heel, arms splaying out in a grand gesticulation. “How do we feel about a knife theme?”

“I’m feeling no,” Brian answers mildly. 

“Ugh, you and your _morals_ —”

  
  
  


By the wee hours of the evening cycle, they’ve something halfway decent composed. Nothing terribly impressive by their usual standards, but Brian apparently advised the woman to return the following night, so it’s the best they can do. Tim’s pleased enough, especially because he did, in fact, get a line in there about knives. Nothing so blunt as the blade, itself, but he can’t begrudge a good metaphor, either, so he’s placated.

“Right then,” Brian nods following their third run through the chorus. “Think that should suffice.”

“I’m always plan B if it doesn’t,” Tim adds, stretching out. He’s taken residence at Brian’s feet, back leaned against his legs, occasionally glancing up, though mostly he’s been watching as the lamps burn, their flames sometimes dipping too low and flicking out sharp curls of smoke.

A few dozen still illumine their congregation of two, both a serenity of lightly scented paraffin and a loathsome indication Tim had best be getting on, soon.

“Can I come tomorrow night?” He asks, not quite preparing for departure, but he’s feeling none too inclined to teasing Brian.

“I… wouldn’t,” comes the reply. “My _prophecies_ tend to incite a lot of, er… grovelling.”

“You could also, y’know, _not_ do this,” Tim points out.

“With the amount of petty shit I hear every day?” Brian rebuffs. “I’d like use my reputation to help someone who needs it.”

Tim huffs to his feet, arcing a crick from his lower back.

“Yeah, well, night after tomorrow, then. So don’t you go promising anyone else anything, okay?”

Brian raises an eyebrow at Tim’s accusing finger.

“I _mean_ it, Drumbot.”

“I’m sure you do, love.”

Tim _hmphs_ , and if he takes far too messy a parting kiss, that’s simply his by right.

“Oh, and tell Jonny horses need, like, actual water.”

Brian calls this as Tim sulks his way to the doors.

“Not that battery acid you feed the kittens.”

“That’s _if_ he’s won the damn thing,” Tim points out. They’ve heard no gunshots or shouting or anything to indicate Jonny’s usual brand of foul play, so there’s every chance the bastard didn’t get his horse, after all.

It’s a slim hope.

“ _Plain_ water, and make sure you add some salt to whatever mash you feed it, for electrolytes.”

Tim laughs. “What, does the station tell you horse-care, too?”

“Some of us spent some time actually learning Ilium’s history,” Brian huffs. “Just don’t let the damn thing die, okay? I doubt that’ll go over well for Jonny.”

  
  
  


Honestly, Tim’s of half a mind to march back to the church and demand Brian tell him the easiest way to dispose of such an animal. Because when Tim wanders his way back to the saloon of Ashes’ and Jonny’s chosen venture, he’s met with the smarminess of the latter smoking outside, his free hand wound in the musty leather reins of a truly beaten old beast pacing knock-kneed by his side. 

Tim takes one look at the horse, then at Jonny, and turns away.

“I don’t want to hear it!” He calls as Jonny begins to shout after him. 

The sky is already starting a dawn-cycle, and even though Tim’s wired as all hell, he hasn’t the strength to deal with Jonny’s victory. He’ll let Nastya sort it when she gets back, and he doubts the Aurora will let him bring that thing onboard. 

And if that’s the worst to come of tonight, then he’s plenty glad for it. 

He’s less inspired toward levity having to go a full day and night without seeing Brian, but at the very least it’ll help some poor, possibly-soon-to-be-widow. Really, Tim hasn’t made up his mind on that matter, much as he’s promised Brian to stay out of it, though he does find himself humming the prophecy they wrote, a somber tune with some truly excellent turns of phrases. Too bad it’s for an audience of one, but the likelihood of drawing an admiring crowd from the likes of this town is, well, _un_ likely.

Ha, maybe he’ll bring up that talking point with Galahad at their inevitable next run in. 

That’s another thing, too, something Tim set his mind on the instant Brian mentioned it. Because like hell Tim’s going to miss out on whatever sermon is in store come Sunday. He’d glimpsed the pages on the preacher’s desk in the midst of his forcibly abrupt departure, didn’t exactly catch a full word out of it, but the violent scrawl littering the page was _very_ promising.

He’d like to know what all the fuss is about. And, if at all he may have inspired something in the preacher to move his spirit so loquaciously. 

Whatever it is, Tim is very much looking forward to getting a front pew seat. Him and the Prophet, both.


	6. I know a sign when I see it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tryinggg to keep the writer's block at bay, and not do that thing where i drag shit on for ages without it being interesting, but i feel like each chapter so far is offering its own scene pretty well???maybe???? anyway here's wonderwall u know the drill <3
> 
> chapter title modified from Roman Candle by Dry the River

And on this that feels like a day of such nascent firsts, Galahad attempts to embrace his new and burdensome normal. Proceeding Tim’s procession of shit-eating grins and dubious responses, the preacher spends most of his day revising his sermon. Much as he’d like to think it’s perfection incarnate, he cherishes humility more than anything, and promptly discards his ire for a more productive morning, then afternoon, then late evening, of poring his words back over. The worry stone of his worship.

Certainly he’s struck by the eloquence, the narrative of temptation writhing its wickedness through his careful penmanship, itself swiftly tamed by lashings of verse struck down upon the pages in tormentous certitude.

But his memory isn’t so generous as he first supposed, and he finds several recitations in dire need of revising, his passions having swayed him too far from the original verse as to almost careen it into the realms of his own personal limitations. His work contains his soul, yes, but must be accessible to all who open their hearts to his words, and, thus, in turn, the Lord’s. Far be it from him to assume his personal compunctions merit more importance than the grander scheme of God’s goodness.

So he quite painstakingly—a retributive catharsis in its own—rescribes the lot, diligent in his amendments, yes, but not so rigid as to sacrifice the fury that dictated the sermon’s flow.

Working well into the scraps of dawn, he falls asleep at his desk, and for his penance, spends the day in a similar fit of castigation. Just as well, the sermon needs much more than a single visit, and he finds still more misgivings to rectify.

By the time he’s finished, the sun has dimmed to rusty rose, and his body argues something fierce for food and drink. He supposes that’s penance enough, and, ignoring the disarrayed mess of his bed and all of its impious implications—though they feel ages away, now, despite having less than two days worth of hindsight—he heads out for a quick prowl through town, donning hat and pistol for the comfort of anonymity.

Inevitably, this leads him to Palfrey’s humble corner of iniquity. Really, it’s no better a place to grab a whiskey and biscuit than any of the other saloons, but the boy is yet young, broken too early on the spokes of inheritance from a bitter drunkard of a father, and he’s a better ear to bend in the Lord’s favor than the surly bastards counting their coin after poker nights and indecent soirees.

As ever, the boy slouches behind the bar, scrubbing glasses with a rag more stain than stitching, but he brightens when the preacher enters and lays five pieces plus two extra on the counter top. Never let it be said Galahad does not abide the Lord’s teachings, and he has a lot to say about tax collectors, besides.

“The usual, Father?”

“If you’d be so kind.”

It’s nice. Humble, routine, but as Palfrey putters around finding the cleanest glassware, the freshest biscuits, the best middle-shelf whiskey, Galahad senses a stiffness from the boy, a curbed-tongue unease.

“Something on your mind, son?”

The irony of his inquiry is about as lost as “x marks the spot”.

Palfrey goes even stiffer, the tips of his ears glowing red in the already orange sputter of the few bulbs about the place.

“That, uh, that man, Father,” he says, turning bashfully back to the counter, “who was in here the other day, don’t s’pose he might be coming back ‘round, do ya? Only mama’s actually quite sore about that whiskey I guess.”

Almost without realizing, Galahad produces another small handful of coin, enough to cover that fateful glass thrice over, and crashes his fist so hard on the counter, Palfrey jumps.

“I don’t want you thinking another second about that man” Galahad growls. “He’s got wicked ways about him, and that’s no path for you, y’hear? You’re good to your mama, and you’re doing fine by the sorry lot your father left you. Devil’s like that man got nothing for you but trouble.”

“I–I–I’m sorry, Father!” The boy’s hands flying up in defense, palms turned out. “Mama really was askin’, honest.”

“Then she shoulda asked me herself,” Galahad says. 

His leniency extends only so far, and Palfrey’s cheeks still shine. Galahad doesn’t cotton kindly to liars, and glozing the truth is just as bad.

“I’m sorry,” echoed with more conviction behind it, and Palfrey’s face scrunches into a placating moue, so sour, in fact, the preacher feels almost regretful for his outburst.

By way of truce, he reaches over and chucks the boy under the chin.

“Don’t be like that,” he says. “There’s plenty’a nice boys for you here. In fact, have I heard correct about you and Mr. Dunlap? Now, I’m not condoning no fooling around before I see you down the aisle of my church, but that’s a nice lad right there, and he’s plenty sweet on you.”

The blush returns tenfold to poor Palfrey’s nose and ears, and the preacher breathes out, tension uncoiling from his chest like the smoke he could damn well use right about now. He studiously does not examine the parameters of that relief, instead pressing Palfrey about his courting with Billy Dunlap till the boy is more squeak than speech, and he has to excuse himself to check on the other patrons about refills. 

This leaves Galahad to his contentments: another soul saved and all, and he tucks into his meal and drink, feeling the most satiated since his greatest test of all first waltzed into this place to wet his snakish tongue.

A visual the preacher snags upon for one moment too many, and his levity anchors at a more appropriate level of shame and frustration. He mustn’t forget his mission, after all.

Finishing his meal, he leaves Palfrey with a firm smile and three shining pieces more. He doesn’t buy his way to benefit, but it doesn’t hurt to be generous, either. 

Departing that debacle, he lights up a cigarette outside, but finds he can’t linger beneath the porch stoop, yesteryear memories of so soon ago, of realizing just exactly what kind of deviant he was up against, tainting the otherwise innocuous space. The lies flowed like wine from that man’s mouth, right here, to the only person in this town who could offer true sanctuary and understanding to a stranger looking for answers. 

“Bastard,” Galahad spits under his breath, and smoke carries it away on the breeze.

No point in stalling, then, and the longer he stays away from his church, the worse he feels, like how a true sinner must squirm when faced with the wrath of his judgement. But Galahad hasn’t done anything wrong, nor does he intend to. His church, his Prophet, they will only give him clarity. 

All the same, he decides to finish his cigarette, first. 

  
  
  


The Prophet gleams amber when Galahad enters, head hung as he crosses the threshold, then turns to bolt the doors, and only when he’s satisfied it’s just him does he turn and take in the Prophet for the first time since he so stupidly gave Tim access to his wisdom.

“I apologize for my absence,” he starts, lamely, a bit wobbly, even.

The Prophet does not reply. Of course. It would be pointless, his answers, already gospel, are unneeded for an issue as petty as this.

Still, Galahad confesses his woes, hopeful for any scrap of input. 

“Forgive me a moment of wallowing, my Prophet, but I really do find myself struggling.”

He wagers a step, then another, closing the distance between the two of them. 

“All I want is to lead others to our Father’s goodness. You’ve opened my eyes to so much, and I’m forever grateful, of course I am.”

_‘However’_ paints an unsaid ellipses in the air, prizes at the preacher’s lips, that devil’s nectar of doubt.

“That man I sent to you,” Galahad tries, hoping to circumvent the coward’s way out. “He’s on a path right to damnation, knew it from the moment I met him. Come to find he’s defiled _you_ , as well, I–”

And there’s no more aisle left to tread, the unwavering eyes of the Prophet gazing down at him, pulling the words from his teeth. 

“I’ve never known such anger in my heart,” the preacher breathes, “and so much pity.”

_‘And want_ ,’ this left mercifully unsaid, but the Prophet needs not paltry stammerings to know what plagues the mortal mind. It burns Galahad’s cheeks with shame, but he’s grateful being spared the verbal indignity, even if it’s all a facade, even if the Prophet knows all.

“He’s hardly the worst sinner I’ve met,” Galahad continues, emboldened to lay his bones bare, “but something about him s’just… _got_ me, and it’s not that I fear a challenge, not at all, I just don’t know how to approach any of it. 

“I won’t waste your time askin’ if this is a worthwhile endeavor,” he gathers his hat in his hands, holds it to his chest. “I know God’s testing me, but… my Prophet, I need to bring this man to the light, I know that, but I can’t do that if I’m wanderin’ the dark, myself. Whatever you can offer by way’a guidance, I—well I’d appreciate just about anything right now.”

He laughs, a small and helpless huff, his eyes falling to the Prophet’s midriff, unable—unworthy—to sully him with the fickle complications of human emotion as his mouth trembles, as his eyes sting. 

One, two, several minutes pass, Galahad swaying gently as he stands, rapt, before God’s messenger, waiting, pleading. Waiting.

And then, with all the fanfare of a seedling breaking soil for its first breath of light, the Prophet begins to sing.

“ _Father, I know you fear this task you’ve set_

_bared your soul to one who you regret._

_But steel yourself, this fate at your soul’s behest;_

_your fortitude befits your faith._

_A stubborn fool, a sinner, a soul so lost,_

_but pursued, by one of the dogged Host;_

_he wears his mask, his boldness, his puerile ruse._

_He’s only a man underneath.”_

The less addled part of Galahad’s brain mutters darkly _‘That’s it?’_

But the rest of the preacher, that which knows to accept and cherish every word bequeathed upon his person, silences the seditious dissent, instead basking in the heady relief of so generous a song.

He’s never understood the Prophet’s chosen method of locution, or rather, never discovered that which inspires him so often to sing. There once were rare instances of speech—when Galahad began taking the Prophet’s word in defiance of the Stones—but now, if ever the Prophet deigns to gift his tongue, it delivers on the lilt and limn of a few short refrains, beautiful as they are cryptic. 

This is staunchly the latter, but it’s more than Galahad’s been given in his favor with this situation, so he stands there, befittingly shaken in the afterglow of God’s word given unto him. 

“My Prophet,” he says, when his words find their way through the stricture at the back of his throat. “I… truly I cannot thank you enough. Just knowing I’m headin’ the right route of this, it’s… thank you, my Prophet, thank you.”

And he lifts his head, to take the Prophet’s gaze once more, a piercing task of exposure and trust, but his own eyes waver, just a second, just a slip of their devotion, casting down to rake across the gleam of the Prophet’s mouth, its corners twitched up, as if smiling, as if beckoning. 

Galahad’s stomach plummets for his feet, and heat bolts across his nose, racing to fill his cheeks. Promptly, he looks to the floor, baffled and bothered and deeply ashamed for no reason he can figure.

“Apologies, my Prophet,” he mutters. “M’not myself today.”

He almost expects an answer, the energy in the air around them rife with a sort of unsated weight, an expectant push and pull that nearly sends Galahad staggering. Or that could simply be his lost mental footing. Regardless, he’s unfit to take an audience of the Prophet, and, mumbling something similarly pitiful to his state, he turns and leaves, addled by a cocktail of mortified relief.

So snared in his embarrassment, trying to no avail to evict from his mind the image of the Prophet’s smile, Galahad realizes very little of his surroundings till he strides abruptly into the bulk of a figure stepped straight into his path.

He starts with a bitten off cry, hand swift to his hip for his gun, but the light spilling out of a nearby window reveals a familiar silhouette, and Galahad seizes for another reason altogether.

“Father!” Gawain crows, an unsettling suggestion of cruel triumph lurking in his tone as he steps to the preacher, steering them both deeper into the shadows. “Just the man I was looking for.”

“Was I now,” Galahad replies coldly.

He does not like Gawain. Plain and simple, he does not. The man sways too easily to the side of violence, and never once has he attended mass or sought retribution for his more barbaric actions, lapses Galahad might forgive if the man wasn’t so determined to convince the majority of Arthur’s ilk to his side of bloodshed. Who is another man the preacher takes plenty issue with, but at least he keeps Gawain under something of a pacifying thumb. 

Alone here, in the pitch of night and already with a conspicuous encounter to motivate Gawain’s ever keen suspicion, well Galahad is plenty smart enough to figure this was the man’s exact plan.

“Only I’ve been thinking, Father,” he’s saying, and throws an arm across the preacher’s shoulders, the chumminess belied by the bruising grip of his hand. “You see, we’ve some troublemakers in our midst. Poor Henry Fallbard had his horse won off him last night in a game of poker, though he seems to think there was something afoot. Never played with such a devil, apparently, and given his streak, I’m inclined to believe him.”

“Fail to see how that’s my concern,” Galahad replies, legitimately perplexed. 

“The funny thing is,” Gawain says, abandoning what straggling bits of levity he thinks will put his suspects at ease, his words thick, now, with condescension. “The description Henry gave of the man he played—well Father wouldn’t you believe it just might have been the man I was chasing down the other night at your insistence?”

“Don’t believe I called for you and yours,” the preacher answers stiffly, decidedly uncomfortable with the angle Gawain might try to take with this. “Way I remember, I came upon a scuffle same as you.”

“Mm, you did rather. Excellent timing on both our parts!”

“I’d say so.”

“And that man you were helping,” Gawain presses, as do his fingers dig into Galahad’s bicep. “Quite a nasty spill—out cold, wasn’t he?”

“You implying I’ve something to do with these bandits,” the preacher says, point blank, though his pulse quickens.

“Whyever would I think that, Father?”

_Not falling for that, you self righteous prick,_ Galahad thinks, though answers instead, “You’ve a penchant for extrapolation, I’m just headin’ you off at the pass.”

“Ah, don’t be hasty, now, you’ve not let me finish.”

“Then do.”

Even in the murky light, Gawain’s mouth gleams at the canines.

“I’d like to have a word with your mystery victim,” he explains. “See if he can offer up anything about the attack. Surely you wouldn’t fault me for being thorough.”

“Not at all,” Galahad replies tightly. “Just don’t know what you’re askin’ me for. Haven’t seen the man since I got him conscious.”

Gawain’s smile thins to a dissatisfied sneer, and Galahad meets it with his own impervious frown.

“He wasn’t curious about what happened to him?” Gawain presses. “Didn’t think to come to us and report the attack?”

“He didn’t seem the type to go crying for the law.”

Which Galahad immediately kicks himself for saying, the wording painting Tim out to be some underhanded scoundrel. Which… well… 

Gawain, predictably, latches on, lockjaw and all.

“ _Did_ he now. Father, I must say, he’s sounding more and more interesting by the minute.”

Just about fed up with this whole affair, Galahad shakes out of Gawain’s grip, pulls himself to full height (two inches shy of Gawain’s stoop) and levies his most stern tone. 

“Gawain, I’m plenty happy to help you keep this town clean, but I’ve had a long day, and I’d like to go home about now. F’you wanna keep chasing down these bandits, by all means, be my guest, but that’s about all I can give you by way of anything useful. 

“Can’t even say where that man’s staying, if he’s still here,” he adds, for a measure of compliance. “You thought about asking 'round the inns?”

“In fact I have, Father,” Gawain answers smoothly. “No recent guests matching the description.”

“Well that’s too bad.

“Mm, isn’t it. Pretty thing, wasn’t he? But that’s not my place”

A beat. Two. Three. Uncomfortable lapses of silence as the men snub the bait of each other’s stalemate.

“Well!” Gawain bites first. “I’ll not detain you further, Father. I know you’re a busy man, and I _do_ so appreciate your help.”

“Anytime,” the preacher answers, glad for the veil of night that it might somewhat disguise his glare as Gawain strides around him. 

“Do please let me know if you remember anything, though, won’t you?”

Galahad sucks the back of his teeth.

“Of course.”

“Thank you. Goodnight, then! Get home safe.”

“I’m sure I will.”

And Galahad watches him saunter away, boots falling heavy, hands clasped contemplatively behind his back. 

Really and truly, Galahad cannot _stand_ the man. Which does little to lend him reprieve when he’s alone again, the preacher finding himself somewhat shaken, as does a healthy dose of shock settle when he realizes what he’s just done—lying to cover for a man who’s done naught but bring him trouble.

The Prophet beseeched him to lay bare that mask, but now he’s gone and added a dozen new layers of obscurity, not to mention Gawain insinuating himself into the fray. 

This, especially, takes an uncomfortably firm priority in Galahad’s mind. No matter one’s transgressions, very few deserve to fall prey to Gawain, and so long as Galahad keeps that at the forefront of his motivation, he doesn’t have to delve the finer depths of the situation. 

This does, however, imply he’ll almost certainly have to warn Tim about this outright. He’s no idea how to seek the man out—where _does_ he slink off to when he’s not darkening doorsteps and defiling the Prophet?—but he hadn’t seemed eager to depart the town just yet. Whatever objective drives that man to flaunt his sins through the square, they’re undoubtedly incomplete, and Galahad is sure he’ll see the devil soon enough yet. 

Or, if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll move on, a thought that leaves the preacher fending off a most unwanted wave of disappointment. 

He’s not a conquest to be won, Galahad forcibly reminds himself. If he chooses to stay and antagonize his luck, that’s his prerogative. If he chooses to seek guidance for his gone astray ways, that’s Galahad’s. Two sides of a coin caught midair, and until it falls, face or foe, Galahad will do what in his heart he knows is right.

In the morning, that is. 

Presently, he lets midnight ferry him home and into bed, sleep claiming the hysteria of two restless nights, and so mercifully quick, too, he doesn’t even recall why his sheets are unkempt. There is so much to reconcile tomorrow, but here and now, there is to be found at least a measure of peace, and that’s all he can really ask for in the end. All he’s really owed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, a few chapters back: haha, what if Gawain/Tim interaction, lol bcuz same guy in hnoc canon :p
> 
> me, now, but much Much thottier: heh.,,, what if,,, Gawain/Tim,,,,,,,,bcuz hot🥴


	7. Ain’t got no reason to hang around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so apparently i need to actually plot things now bc boy howdy, this aint gonna resolve itself in another few chapters or so RIP in piss @ me, also general exhaustion frm work makes it hard to write, so anticipate longer stretches between updates im afraid :^/
> 
> anyway, the usual, chapter title from Med School by Dry the River, love yall *mwah*

Really, Tim feels himself owed something of an award for his patience. He does as Brian asks, keeping away from the church, and indeed the whole town, the following day and night, and he’s all set the next morning to collect his dues. 

Only Jonny decides to be an absolute fuckwit and get his damn horse stuck in Bay 6, which wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if the animal weren’t presently impinging on octokitten territory. 

The ensuing acid bath and prying loose of a hundred or so tentacles leaves the crew understandably sore with Jonny—whose only concern is the horse—and Tim very much wants to shoot him, or tell him that’s what he gets bringing the damn thing aboard the ship, but the mate’s already occupied threatening Ivy with his gun as she opines as much. 

“Where the hell else am I supposed to put her?” 

“Outside!” 

“Horses and spaceships are rather well unsuited for each other!” The Toy Soldier adds.

“Absolutely not,” Jonny trains his gun on the Soldier, now. “You saw how she ran off yesterday.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have played for a _fucking horse_ ,” Tim offers bitterly, plucking the singed cuff of his left sleeve.

Amidst the argument, the animal in question stands shaking, bug-eyed and tossing her head from side to side. Tim wants to tell her to piss off, that she hardly bore the brunt of the kittens, but then he can’t really blame her. Poor dumb animal. And _stupid fucking_ Jonny.

“Could build a fence,” Ashes says, as ever incapable of rising to any bluster.

“That would take ages,” this from Marius, who walked in _after_ they had corralled the kittens to Bay 5. “Honestly, I’m with Jonny on this.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Jonny flails his gun at the doctor. “See? He gets it.”

“We are _not_ keeping her on the ship,” Ivy says. In the absence of Nastya and Raph, she never fails to take on the duty of “voice of reason” and that voice is presently _pissed_. “Ashes has the right of it. Either find some way to corral her _outside_ , or have fun tracking her down every time she wanders off.”

“Have you all no fucking hearts?” Jonny stares around at his mates. 

He’s met with little sympathy, Tim leveraging the darkest glower he can muster, hand at the hilt of his nearest gun.

Finally, Ashes breaks the silence.

“Fence it is. C’mon, lets go get some supplies in town.”

“I’m _not_ leaving her,” Jonny puts on like a petulant child. 

“She doesn’t seem to be in any state to go anywhere!” The Toy Soldier replies. 

“No shit,” Tim mutters under his breath, and brandishes the finger as Jonny aims his pistol.

“Fine, _fine_ ,” Ivy steps between them, quick to delegate. “Ashes, if you’d like to go into town and inquire about supplies, please do. Jonny, you can stay here with the horse–”

“She has a name you know.”

“– _and_ I’ll even let you keep her in the bay until we get the fence sorted, yeah?”

“Oh just say yes, you stubborn prick,” Tim sighs, as Jonny hems and haws.

“ _Fine_ ,” the mate concedes. 

“Good,” the finality in Ivy’s tone borders on threatening. “Thank you. Ashes?”

“M’on it. Uh, who’s coming with?”

“Pass,” Marius.

“Done my bit,” Ivy.

Which leaves Tim and the Toy Soldier, the latter easily coerced into joining the errand, and Tim tacking himself on if only because he’s headed that way, anyway, and he’d like to have a proper word with Ashes about their and Jonny’s less than conducive antics. 

“Well, if you don’t mind,” Jonny huffs, when they’ve sorted their respective goals for the day. “Sasha and I would prefer to be alone.”

“Oh I’m sure you would,” Marius snipes, grinning and ducking out of the bay before Jonny can draw his gun again.

“We’ll be quick,” Ashes assures both him and Ivy before chauffeuring Tim and the Soldier out, 

“This is exciting!” The Soldier trills. “I have been wondering what town is like!”

“Dusty,” Ashes replies, deadpan.

“Oh! Can we pop in on Brian?”

“Absolutely not,” Tim glares at the Soldier, then at Ashes.

“No,” he repeats, to their smug grin.

“Why not?” They counter. “He’s our mate, too, y’know.”

“Because if Galahad walks in on us,” Tim can’t believe he has to spell this out, “there is no damn way I’ll be able to keep the peace.”

“And what, it’s fine if he walks in on you?”

“That’s _not_ what I’m saying.”

“Kinda is.”

Tim flounders for a second, trying to scrounge up a less flimsy excuse to avoid the train wreck sure to ensue when Galahad recognizes Ashes. Self preservation is not their style, so that being the only substantial answer, Tim keeps his mouth shut and stalks ahead of the group.

“Does this mean we’re going to see Brian?” The Soldier asks.

“I dunno,” Ashes says, their grin audible. “Does it, Tim?”

“Shut up,” he answers.

The whole way to town is fraught with jeers, his nerves shriveling to a serrated edge of irritation and anxiety, and when they reach the environs and neither Ashes nor the Soldier have capitulated, he throws his hands, defeated, in the air. 

“ _Fine_! Fine, _fine_. We’ll go fucking see Brian, then. Swear to God, though, I’m not covering for you.”

“I can do that!” The Soldier responds, eyes agleam with merry bloodlust. 

“No you won’t,” Tim says.

“Yes, it will,” Ashes rebuffs, smirking.

“ _No_ , it _won’t_ , and that’s a fucking order, got it?”

“Yes, sir!” The Soldier salutes.

Ashes narrows their eyes, then leans over, hand cupped to the Soldier’s ear.

Tim draws his pistol, “Nope. You’re gonna deal with this on your own, O’Reilly.”

To which Ashes laughs, strides over, and cuffs Tim’s shoulder with their own as they pass him by.

“You’ve really gotta loosen up.”

Then, “C’mon, let’s see f’your boyfriend’s taking walk-ins. How much for a prophecy was it?”

“My last fucking nerve,” Tim bites.

But there’s no denying them, not without drawing a scene to their party. So Tim tries for transparency, instead, a last ditch effort that leaves his ego more than a little soured.

“I get it, okay?” He reaches out, hand halting Ashes by the shoulder as they make to continue into town. “We’re all going fucking stir crazy, but we need to lay low.”

“It’s broad daylight,” they reply.

“You know what I mean.”

“I also know when you need to fucking cool it.”

“Nice one!” The Soldier crows, and Tim gives it his best scowl.

“I don’t need to cool fuck all,” he rebukes. “I need you two to behave yourselves, or we’re gonna get the damn watch called again, and honestly? Really and fucking truly? I’d like not to have to shoot up the whole town before Nastya and Raph get back.”

“After, then?” That Ashes sounds genuinely inquisitive bears no comment, save a sigh and a roll of the eyes.

“After,” he hears them whisper to the Soldier as he forgoes an answer and sulks ahead, dragging their sorry lot in tow.

_Just make sure you’re not the first fucker I go for_ , he thinks to himself, and feels incrementally better for it.

  
  


His mood enlivens several degrees more when they make it to the church sans confrontation or recognition, and he’s through the bloody roof to find the place deserted, no trace of the preacher in sight.

Upon their entrance into the church proper, however, Brian does not respond, his gaze fixed straight ahead, utterly vacant, and dread like too much ballast sinks in Tim’s stomach. He’s down the aisle in seconds.

“Brian?” Then, quieter, so hopefully neither Ashes nor the Soldier hears enough to make fun, “Love?”

Nothing.

“S’he like, okay?” Ashes comes up behind Tim with an air of bored gravitas, going so far as to reach over and wave a hand in front of Brian’s face.

“He’s _fine_ ,” Tim snaps, smacking away their hand.

“Eesh,” Ashes clicks their tongue. “Tetchy much?”

“ _No_ , really? What gave it away.”

“Listen, mate,” they take a step away, shrugging, “f’you’re just gonna be an asshole about this–”

“Oh.”

And they both turn, their spat quickly exhausted as Brian’s surprised voice cuts through the tension.

“Well look at that!” Ashes shoves fully past Tim, now, rocking up on their toes to get good and close to Brian. “Sleeping beauty kind enough to give us an audience?”

“I’d ask you to put me back under,” Brian answers blithely, “if you’re going to make jokes like that.”

Ashes grins, “Good to see you, too.”

“Hallo!” This makes Tim jump a little, the Toy Soldier effusing like a struck bell as they waltz around him and throw Brian a salute.

“Christ,” Brian laughs and rolls his eyes, “who let you in here,” the sentiment only half delivered with sincerity.

“Tim, of course!” It answers, oblivious. “It took some convincing, but I think he’s amenable!”

“I am not,” Tim says, keenly aware that he hasn’t gotten a word in.

“They wouldn’t take no for an answer,” he explains, gaze darting as Brian smiles down at him. “Told them how dangerous it would be–”

“Ah, about that,” Brian starts, but the Soldier cuts in again.

“Jonny has a horse! We’re getting supplies for a fence, because the kittens don’t like it very much and it wanders off, otherwise.”

“I… um, okay, that’s–” Brian looks helplessly at Tim. “That’s… nice?”

“Dunno what we’re gonna do with it when we leave this dump,” Ashes adds. “Which, by the way, how uh… how’re you holding up?”

“Ah,” Brian chuckles. “Pretty good? I suppose? Tim filled you in, yeah?”

“Yes,” Tim answers for Ashes. “Hence there being _literally_ no reason for them coming here.”

“Should probably make it short, actually,” Brian replies. “Galahad hasn’t been in yet.”

“Pity,” The Toy soldier says, shaking its head, “I’d liked to have a word or two with him about the state he keeps you in.”

“Not necessary, but I appreciate the concern.”

“Hmph!” The Soldier thrusts its chin petulantly, but breaks into a giggle seconds later.

Tim would very much like to tell it to shut up.

“It is nice to see you both,” Brian says, truly a marvel of patience.

“Could’ve done to get stranded somewhere cooler,” Ashes says. “But yeah, maybe we’ll try and get the others over sometime, say hi. Mostly I think we’re all just waiting to get off this garbage station, but–”

“But until then, we’ll be laying low,” Tim shoots a glare at their smarmy tone.

“Sure. That.”

“Which is… why you let Jonny have a horse,” Brian smirks.

“Fate of the cards, mate. Nothing I could do.”

“Bullshit,” Tim hisses under his breath, growing antsier by the second.

“Well, you probably should have,” Brian continues, affecting a somewhat dire tone. 

“Oi,” Ashes jabs a finger at Brian, “don’t pin this on me. I kept him from knifing the old bastard, yeah? Credit where it’s due.”

“Still drawing some undue attention.”

Ashes scowls, “Whatever. Nice to see you, too, I guess.”

“I’m just saying you should be a little less reckless.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Tim adds, throwing Ashes a shit-eating grin.

“Whatever,” they repeat. “Didn’t come here to get lectured.”

“Ashes–”

They cut Brian off with a curt wave. 

“Nah, don’t worry. Gotta fence to build, anyway. Wouldn’t happen to know where any decent carpenters are?”

Brian chuckles, “M’fraid not.”

“Eh, we’ll have a look around. TS?”

The Soldier, thumbing through one of the tattered bibles plucked from the nearest pew, promptly drops the book and _hups_ to attention.

“Yes?”

“You still got my gold, right?”

It pats down its various pockets, each one jangling conspicuously. 

“Sure do! We’ll have enough for twenty fences, I should say!”

It gives a thumbs up, and Tim bites down on his tongue to keep from snapping at them to get going already. The longer they stay making terrible small talk, the more tedious their presence grates. 

“See you back at the ship? Or you gonna get got by your preacher guy again,” Ashes snarks this by way of departing sentiment, and Tim draws his least favored pistol.

They just laugh, and shoo the giggling Toy Soldier for the doors.

“See you later, loverboys,” they singsong, ducking out of the church just as Tim clicks back the safety.

“Personally, I think you should give them a bit of slack,” says Brian, matter-of-factly.

For a second, Tim considers turning the gun on him, too, even if for a joke, but without the grating presence of Ashes and the Toy Soldier, he’s finding himself amenable to the joshing.

Very amenable, in fact, long enough to get his gun re-holstered and his hands cupping Brian’s face, drawing him as far down as his altar permits for Tim to swallow a slow, luxurious kiss from his burning mouth.

“You really need to be more careful about that,” Brian tuts when Tim relents, hissing as he draws two stinging fingers over the freshly reddening welts on his lower lip.

“Only when you stop playing God.”

“Ah, we’ll have a while yet, then.”

“Went well, did it? Our prayer?” Tim asks, inquiring after the woman from the other night.

“Hm? Oh, yeah no, she was very moved. Probably halfway to her sister’s by now.”

“And the husband?” 

“Couldn’t say.”

“Hm, well I’ll keep an eye out.”

Brian smiles, small and knowing and far too kindly for their company.

Tim blinks.

“What.”

“Oh, nothing.”

“ _No_ , spit it out, Drumbot.”

“Ah, it’s just you’re a bit soft sometimes. I enjoy it.”

“Brian, love,” Tim draws his expression into decidedly neutral territory, “you know I’d kill that woman stone dead if it meant I’d have you out of here sooner.”

“Mm,” Brian hums. “Doubtful. You’re too chivalrous for that.”

“Chivalry’s a fucking farce,” Tim retorts. “And you know it.”

“If you insist.”

“Anything else?” Tim asks, suddenly desperate to change the subject.

“Oh,” Brian’s eyes light up, his mouth quirking. “Yes, actually. Almost forgot.”

“Mm?”

“Ah, um. Last night, I had a visit from Galahad, too.”

Tim tries to ignore the way his pulse jumps, really he does.

“You’ve uh… done a number on him, love,” Brian pauses to laugh, a nervous chuckle that riles Tim to the core.

“He’s the obsessive type, sure, but this is–

“You know he asked me what to do about you?”

Tim coughs, half in surprise, half in genuine delight.

“He what?”

“Yup,” Brian pops the latter consonant, full on grinning. “Apparently he pities you as much as he doesn’t understand you.”

“I–you… what did you say?”

“Er, um, nothing? Really? Improvised a quick song, I tried to keep it vague but… I may? Have instigated him? A bit? I’m a little unclear about that yet. He hasn’t come by today, so–”

“Brian, _what_ did you tell him.”

“Um… well–”

“ _Brian_.”

“Look! I don’t remember all of it, it was… wordy, and vague, but er, I seem to recall something along the lines of ‘lay bare his mask’ or… something. Erm… yeah.”

It takes a moment for Tim’s mind to process that, and when it arrives at the only available conclusion, he’s burning up all over again.

“Look,” he tries to keep his cool. “I–I know we joked about it but… Christ, Brian, at this rate I won’t even _have_ to put on the charm.”

“Oh, _now_ who’s making mountains?” Brian accuses.

“You’re like his surrogate conscience! You can’t just go putting those kinds of things in his head!”

“The only reason they’re there in the first place is because _you_ antagonized him!”

“Oh sure, put this all on me, mister,” Tim drags through the air the most sardonic inverted commas he can muster, “ _gets himself crucified on a manky space station in the middle of uncharted nowhere_.”

“Well!” Brian shrugs helplessly.

“I’ve a right mind to just leave you here another two hundred years,” Tim admonishes.

“You’re a real prick when you think you’ve got the upperhand, you know that?”

Tim scoffs, “Think?”

“Mhm,” Brian raises an eyebrow in that appraising way that means he’s merely entertaining Tim’s attitude. 

“Well–” Tim rebuffs, “well at this point, I think you’re as much accountable for Galahad as I am.”

Brian relents with a put on sigh, “Fine, fine. I’m sorry, is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Will do for now, just please consult me next time before you go riling him up. S’no fun if you get to do all of it.”

The eye-roll Tim receives borders on physically impossible.

“This has got to be your worst choice of conquest yet. You know that, right?”

Echoing Brian’s earlier airs with a resounding, “Yyyu _p_ ,” Tim weathers himself another lance of heat across his mouth with a punctuating kiss, and when he pulls away, they’re both smiling.

“So,” he flicks a stray curl of copper from Brian’s eyes, “what did the good preacher have to say about it all?”

“He was… grateful? Mostly he was trying to put on like he understood what I said, which I’d have to commend him if he did because I sure as hell wasn’t going for anything coherent.”

“Christians,” Tim nods, solemnly. “Surprisingly mentally tenacious.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Brian sounds genuinely sheepish, “It was very flattering.”

“Good, s’the least I deserve.”

Amiable silence stretches between them, that thread of conversation mostly exhausted, and Tim didn’t come here to talk about Galahad and his questionable character—mostly, anyway.

“So,” Brian breaks the interim, “any word from Nastya or Raph?”

“Oh,” Tim blinks, “shit I didn’t even think about that, actually.”

“Surely they took some comms with them.”

“I mean, probably?”

“Well, there are settlements further inside the station,” Brian sighs. “But I doubt they have anything functional.”

“It’s only been a few days,” Tim points out. “And it’s not like you’re fucking… coming with anyway, even when we figure this out.”

“I know, I just hate the waiting.”

“That’s what you get for being a martyr.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” Brian clearly wants to steer the conversation elsewhere, and Tim lets him, having little else to add to the matter of the Drumbot’s inexplicable need to self-castigate.

“Nice to know Jonny’s occupied. Didn’t even shoot the guy for the horse?”

“Thank fuck no.”

“Well, I’ll be interested to see how the corral comes along.”

“Yeah, I don’t think they get that you can’t just… put a fence up in an afternoon.”

“There are plenty of nice folks in town I’m sure would be happy to help if you inquire nicely. And pay.”

“That’s very _domestic_ ,” Tim says, “but I’d rather not put any more effort into this place than I absolutely have to.”

Again, Brian sighs, “You should really make the best of things while you’re stuck here.”

“Oh? And how’s that worked out for you.”

A beat.

“Point taken.” 

“Mhm.”

Yet more silence, this more burdensome as the less innocuous questions nagging the back of Tim’s throat urge a small cough, and then Brian’s asking, “Yes, love?” and, well, Tim’s only human. Mostly, anyway.

“You were… out of it, when we came in,” he says.

“Was I?”

“Mm, unresponsive for a good minute.”

“Well, like I said,” and Brian sounds genuinely convinced of himself, “it happens sometimes.”

To which Tim sternly replies, “No, you said you have a random sleep malfunction every dozen years. And this definitely wasn’t that.”

“Well, concerning as that is,” says Brian, “the last thing I remember was, y’know, _being here_ as usual, and then you and Ashes and TS showed up.”

Tim _hmphs_ his displeasure, but if Brian hasn’t any answers, there’s not much point pressing the issue.

“Well, try and gauge that,” he says. “God forbid it’s something with you being wired into this damn place.”

“Will do,” said with another adoring smile.

And Tim sighs, “What now?”

“Ah nothing, just you being soft again.”

“I will shoot you where you fucking stand.”

“Don’t make empty promises, love.”

To which Tim roundly scowls, marches up to the Drumbot, and drags him into a rather very indecent kiss, indeed.

Brian’s resulting smile, all stupidly pleased, better suits him, and Tim draws back feeling somewhat vindicated.

Then he recalls the thousand other issues he’s supposed to be juggling, namely Ashes and the Toy Soldier gone about town sans supervision, and his mood refits itself into fidgety gloom.

“I should probably,” he jerks a thumb over his shoulder, “before they do something I’ll have to regret for them.”

“Mm, for the best, yeah? And I’m still waiting on Galahad, I’ve a feeling the upcoming mass is going to be… a lot.”

Tim brightens at this, and smirks wider as he catches Brian’s eyes skating his mouth with suspicion.

“What, you thought I’d sit that out?”

“Tim, you just told me not to antagonize him.”

“Yeah, I did. Never said anything about myself, though.”

“And if I asked you not to?”

“Would you?” Tim very much re-insinuates himself in Brian’s space, drawing a thumb across his lower lip. “Can’t bear to see me on my knees taking sacrament from another man?”

“We both know that’s a bloody lie,” Brian grumbles. 

Tim just laughs, administers a quick peck to the Drumbot’s cheek, and saunters back.

“Sorry, but I’m going to see what the fuss is all about.”

“Then I’d ask you to be at least a little discerning,” Brian concedes. “There will be other townsfolk attending.”

“Yeah yeah, fine, will do.”

“Now,” Brian makes a shooing motion as best he can with his right hand, “go make sure Ashes and TS haven’t haggled anyone to gunpoint.”

“Can I come back tonight? We can rehearse more prayers.”

“Is that a euphemism?’’

“Would you like it to be?”

“ _Out_ ,” Brian laughs, “you insufferable blasphemer.”

“Oh, I like the sound of that.”

“ _Tim_.”

“Yeah, I know,” Tim chuckles and rakes a hand through his hair, drawing it up off the back of his neck.

“Christ, this place could do with some proper ventilation,” he mutters, messily sectioning the heavy mass of it and doing up a quick braid. “M’dying here.”

“Aircon broke about seventy years back I’m afraid,” Brian says, unhelpfully. “Also, I like the braid.”

Tim rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling anyway.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he says, making for the doors. “Shall I bring the banjo? Or just my guitar.”

“Guitar,” Brian says. “Banjo’s a bit loud I think, also when’s the last time you even played?”

“Er, good point.”

And after a succession of increasingly far-too-saccharine goodbyes, along with an unsavory kiss (or several) Tim’s striding from the church, goggles and mask drawn to hide the frankly idiotic grin on his face. As well, he has no idea where Ashes and the Soldier got to, so his chances of being recognized while he hunts their party down are greater than he’d like. 

Uneventfully, he finds them a few blocks away, down a side street marking merchants’ quarters, and true to the emblazoned lathe on an overhead sign, he ducks into a sawdust-laden establishment to find Ashes chatting amiably with what appears to be the shop owner, she herself who is doing a very bad job of not staring at the Toy Soldier.

Which… oops. Well, they sure didn’t think that one through. But as Tim browses the shop, not yet wanting to draw attention to his affiliation with Ashes, the owner’s eyes fall much more keenly on the pile of cash they push her way.

“And they can deliver before evening?” Ashes is saying, as Tim meanders closer to get a feel for the conversation. “M’really counting on you, Hilda.”

“Absolutely, guaranteed,” the answer obviously swayed by the clink of coin on the counter top. 

“And there’s a real big tip in there for you, personally, if you get it up by tomorrow.”

“You’ll be our top priority Mx. O’Reilly.”

“Excellent, and what did you say the retainer was?”

The rest follows suit of tedious monetary logistics Tim has no interest in, so he ducks back out of the shop and props himself beside the door.

The Toy Soldier, evidently tired of being ogled like a prize plank, joins him quickly after with a “Hallo!” and a wave.

“Getting your fence, then?” Tim asks, mostly out of obligation.

“Sure are! Hilda has a very strong wife and several cousins!”

“Uh… hooray?”

“Yes indeed, hurrah!”

Pointedly pushing up his goggles, Tim rubs at his temples. The Soldier, in its usual fashion, keeps jabbering away.

“It should be up by tomorrow, so Sasha won’t have to run away again!”

“Yeah, I gathered as much.”

“Hurrah!”

About now, Tim wishes he’d gotten accosted on the street. How does Ashes put up with the Soldier for more than five minutes?

Blessed relief arrives with them soon enough, though, Ashes exiting the shop with an air of pointed satisfaction they throw none too subtly Tim’s way.

“Am I supposed to be impressed,” he asks, emphatically not so.

“Gotta fence,” they answer, as if that means anything at all.

“Good for you, can we go now?”

“Why?” Ashes raises an eyebrow, flicking forth a cigarette and lighting up. 

They offer the pack Tim’s way, and he narrows his eyes.

“Because,” he says slowly, “there’s no reason to stay in town, and I don’t want you two starting any shit.”

“Actually, I wanted to go to a saloon!” The Soldier babbles.

“Out of the question,” Tim aims this retort squarely at Ashes. “We are going back to the ship, and you’re going to wait there like civilized fucking people for the supplies, and then you’re going to help Jonny with his fence.”

“First of all–” Ashes starts.

“Not a person!” The Soldier finishes, and Ashes jabs their thumb at it.

“Yeah, that. Also, don’t need your goddamn permission to do anything, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“No,” Tim bites, “but you sure need my supervision, apparently.”

“You get chased by the watch literally once!” Ashes sneers around their cigarette. “You need t’lighten up, mate.”

Which, maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t. Either way, he’s not keen to stay in town, and even less so to leave Ashes and the Soldier on their chaotic lonesome.

He doesn’t foresee them conceding to talk alone, though, and two against one, even with his expert shot, he doesn’t like his chances. And that’s the very thing he’s trying to avoid, besides.

Sighing heavily, he grimaces, “When are the supplies being delivered.”

Sensing their winning over the stalemate, Ashes replies warmly, “’Bout an hour. And considering I didn’t exactly give Hilda any directions to the ship…”

They trail off, grinning.

Refusing to dignify that, Tim turns instead for the Toy Soldier, who has been occupying itself gazing dreamily at the overhead sign and its painted lathe.

“You want to go to a saloon?”

“I do, yes!”

“On the condition I choose the place, then we’ll go. And we are leaving in an hour, got it?”

The Soldier salutes, and Ashes chuckles.

“Do love a good day drink, me,” they offer to Tim’s unimpressed scowl. “Where did you have in mind, then?”

“Just follow me,” he grumbles, and turns on his heel back in the direction of the main thoroughfare.

And, Christ, he can only hope Palfrey is prepared for their lot.


	8. I know how it sounds, how it looks; but it’s not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello,, im still here, pls take this offering of uh, perhaps not the most interesting chapter so far, but it was mostly fun to write, so ;^/
> 
> title modified from Excalibur by PD Liddle (don't get ur hopes up, the song's from a solo album by Dry the River's lead singer lmaooo, also this one is reaaaaaally :eyes: if you haven't given any of these title songs a try, pls do so w this one it's *yum*)
> 
> (and in fact if anyone's inch wrist stead, [I have a running playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1nhM4nd0ePw6n5RtzDC5tD?si=uTB8ryiUQhWoQkzrIv35rg) for all of the songs so far)

Galahad can count on one hand the number of times he’s known true and humbling dread, foremost among them, the day he left his family’s homestead, seeking out better prospects from the Godless land his relations had contented themselves to wallow in. 

It’s not with a dissimilar stone in his chest that he once again drags himself to the foot of the Prophet’s altar the afternoon following his jarring encounter with Gawain, beseeching answers for half conceived questions because he’s too conflicted to manage this on his own. 

“I’m lyin’ for a sinner,” he says, after he’s relayed the incident to the most succinct of his ability.

It seems like that, at least, should feel cathartic, but it doesn’t, the truth a brand on his tongue, acrid and malfeasant.

“They’re small enough transgressions, of course,” he continues babbling, like that might wash the taste out. “And Gawain’s no practicing son of God. But I just don’t know if I’m doing right by any of this. I’ve known the man less’n a day in total, but I can’t get him out of my head. I feel so… responsible for him. Feels like I’m going a bit mad if I’m honest.”

The Prophet, his face a glaze of impassive contentment, gives no response, for which Galahad actually finds himself grateful. He knows he can’t settle on anything yet, whether by the Prophet’s suggestion or his own indecision, though it’s necessary to talk, to gauge his next move. Whatever the hell that might be.

“Must be mighty boring,” he says, a deprecating laugh sour in his throat. “Hearing me wallow in the same old things. Oh, but I brought–”

And here he procures from his satchel the pages of his sermon, itself a mangling of ink from where he’s once again taken remedy to his writing, the verse proving impossible to remain perfect enough for his liking. And with every new hour bringing forth another burden to its subject matter, it’s unlikely to ever conceive its message fully till he’s speaking it to his congregation. And even then… 

“Is it presumptuous of me?” He wonders aloud, not necessarily invoking the Prophet’s opinion, but it doesn’t hurt to suggest. “The Lord speaks in all His mystery, but I worry that I’m lettin’ myself be led by something less… derived of His good will.”

Which is about as circumlocutory an explanation as he cares to give for the guilt that nestles hotly in his stomach every time he re-reads his sermon, trying with little benefit to convince himself it is the word of God and not his own unseemly infatuation nitpicking every bit of verse. Each iteration, however, chips more and more of his resolve, eroding him to this schism of self-doubt and obsession. 

“But you told me to expose him, didn’t you,” which is not a question, merely the preacher once more revising his doubt. “And I’m not questioning you, of course not. I just can’t wrap my head around it all, I suppose. If I could have a proper conversation with him, I’m sure that’d do me well, but he’s fickle, isn’t he? And I don’t even know where to start.”

In an uncharacteristic lapse of deference, Galahad seats himself at the foot of the Prophet, slouching hat in hand and brushing the soft curls from his eyes.

“I suppose, wherever is gonna keep him outta Gawain’s clutches is best,” this accompanied by a mirthless chuckle, the knight’s shrewdly cruel smile slashed across his mind’s eye like a festering wound.

“Something’s comin’ to a head, though. Has to be, I’m sure.”

Still no response from the Prophet. Still, the only guiding word being that which sings inside Galahad’s head, each word turned over in talismanic meditation, till the serifs are worn smooth and malleable to enable anything Galahad might wish to make of them. But he won’t. Not entirely, at least. Faith is, after all, prone terribly to its own subjectivity.

“If I see him,” Galahad says aloud, for it wouldn’t feel right otherwise, “I’ll take these matters into my own. Told me himself there’s nothing to know or save, and while I think that’s about as bold a lie as any, I’ll be damned if I’m forcing the Lord’s word past the fangs of a viper.”

Which rings only a little less hollow than the lofty promises he’d been previously ruminating, but it’s a step in a direction he’d otherwise not had at all. Perhaps now he can bed down his sermon and think of something else for a second or two. 

And perhaps if he turned to take the Prophet’s gaze again, he’d find himself wondering on the metal man’s quizzical, almost worried, expression, as if he, too, were parsing the implacable and not just the preacher. 

As it is, Galahad does not do this, remaining sat in his unorderly sprawl, thinking relatively of nothing in the hopes of quieting his burdens. It works only somewhat, the silence of the church cut through by the errant crescendo of goings-on from the town outside which grow indelibly irksome upon his nerves.

He’s half his molars ground down to pillar salt away from lighting a cigarette here and now—a trespass he denies even to his most cantankerous and loyal parishioners—but the second his fingers twitch for his breast pocket, there comes the faint hiss of rust upon a hinge, and then the Prophet sings forth such clarity as to almost inundate the preacher with awe.

This time, however, there harmonizes a lilt of unwariness, as if the Prophet doesn’t quite trust his own words. Still, they spill forth, and Galahad listens, enrapt, staring ahead as he finds himself frozen where he’s sat, unable to even crane his head and enjoy the image that accompanies the two short refrains.

_In shadows cast by one of a soul beset_

_on all sides with sin he does not repent,_

_Galahad, I seek you this goal relent_

_lest you ensnare both your fates._

_Should you insist, however I guide you not_

_to embark with one of such stubborn lot._

_Then wile these hours, your quarry may yet be caught._

_He’ll kneel here when stars claim the day._

“Well…” Galahad breathes, as the last notes tremble to his bones, infusing vigor into his blood, running his pulse wild.

He should say something more, of course he should. But nothing so eloquent comes to mind as: _‘Bout damn time.’_ which, _well_ —

Instead, he chooses to clear his throat, get to his feet, and spend some time affixing his saturno, all with his back kept to the Prophet. 

“Think I’ll take some air,” he says, sans intonation. “One man shouldn’t vex another so, but I s’pose I’ve dug my grave.

“Thank you, my Prophet,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “Hopefully you’ll bear witness to something more productive tonight; I won’t waste your wisdom.”

At this, he chances a look back, but the brim of his saturno slips down before he can suss the Prophet’s expression, and, flustered, he heads swiftly for the doors. 

The bustle and heat outside smarts his eyes to a squint, so he takes a moment to compose his bearings, digging the afore-desired cigarette from his pocket along with the lighter he stole from his mother the night he’d left his troubled youth far behind.

Relishing somewhat guiltily the tang of tobacco curling down his throat, he leans back on the doors and surveils the afternoon crowd, themselves content to ignore the preacher almost entirely, not keen to provoke a lecture as he’s sometimes wont.

Not today, though, and especially not as he spies a member of the watch peel herself from the shadows and confront a perhaps too loudly inebriated gentleman. Galahad’s seen this before, far too many times than he thinks Arthur should overlook, and he’ll often intervene on behalf of his flock, even if their gratitude is slim to none. At present, the threat of drawing again Gawain’s attention thwarts any goodwill the preacher might extend to the unfortunate man, though he does keep an eye on the scene until the man is sent on his way with a rough shove.

“Animals,” Galahad mutters, and pulls his cigarette a good few millimetres closer to the filter. 

Then, just over the embers of ash and smoke, he catches a glimpse of something that makes his blood run momentarily frigid. It’s too quick to be sure, and there was so little detail to take in that fateful night, but the bit of flash-red hair and the billowing tails of a smartly cut coat ring far too familiar for him to pass up as mere coincidence. 

They’re swiftly gone, the hair and the coat as well as the intimidating figure that sports both, turning down a far street following two other silhouettes. Too fast for Galahad to even crane his neck, but certainty stakes its claim like a spearhead in his sternum, and he grimaces around his cigarette, itself gone abruptly foul.

He spits it to the ground and grinds it to dust, though the simmering disgust in his stomach is not so easily quashed, becomes anger that turns promptly to worry, which cedes to an ill-fitting sort of relief, because he never did extend impunity to Tim’s ilk. That they’re stupid enough to go flaunting themselves in broad daylight, that’s no concern of his. 

Even so, it grates at his nerves, of which that bitter, wasted cigarette did little to allay, besides. Really, the only thing for it is whiskey, and that’s a vice he desperately does not want to take alone, slouched on his empty bed and plenty liable to think all manner of unseemly things.

Well, he knows where company and drink resides, and, surreptitiously checking around for any more of the watch that might be lurking nearby, he makes his way toward the opposite end of the square. 

He only hopes Palfrey won’t judge him too harshly for imbibing so soon in the day.

  
  
  


What Galahad does not expect to greet him, is the boy immediately perking up the moment he approaches the bar, eyes agleam with news just short of bursting.

“He was here, Father,” he says, before Galahad can even sit down. “Just now, that–that man, Tim I think his name was? Now I know you said not to go lookin’ for trouble, but he wasn’t alone, had two friends with him. And–”

Palfrey leans over the counter, motioning the preacher close. Caught wholly off guard, Galahad does so, letting the boy hiss into his ear what he had already begun to suspect.

“Had some watch ‘round here askin’ about a few newcomers causing trouble, and, Father you won’t believe this, but he was _with_ one of ‘em. 

“Now I know I’ve got a memory like a sieve,” the boy continues, sheepishly triumphant, “tell me that twice or more, I’ll swear by it, but who else you know that has red hair, huh? Anyways, they was with him, Father, the one the watch is out for, and some automaton I think? Hard to tell, but they were chipper sure enough and–”

“Edwin,” Galahad interjects, employing just enough force to truly shut the boy up. He shouldn’t be caught in these crosshairs, poor thing, and Galahad means to nip it right in the bud.

But then the next thing out of his mouth is a conspiratorial, “Have you told anyone,” and that’s any chance at discretion out the window and down the street.

“I–no?” Palfrey looks at him curiously. “No, they only just left, Father, but I can call for–”

“You’ll do no such thing, boy,” Galahad has to force himself not to grab Palfrey by the shoulders. “I’ll not have you sticking your nose in with Gawain and his.”

Behind his outburst, he’s immensely grateful the saloon boasts maybe five patrons at its busiest, and that the only other drinker is an old sod, one Nathan Mord, off in the corner who barely sees or hears past the periphery of his hangover. Still, the preacher keeps clipped and curt his tone, making sure each word lands like a lash on poor Edwin Palfrey’s dumbstruck face.

“Whatever grand ideas you got in your head about gallivanting off into Gawain’s graces, you go right ahead and put those to bed, y’hear me? 

“Father,” and Palfrey sounds so genuinely hurt, too, “I–I don’t… why shouldn’t I report ‘em?” 

_Because then I’ll never have him,_ thinks Galahad, an abrupt and jarring thought that he promptly buries under the debris of the present fallout, because he does _not_ have the wherewithal to examine _that._

So instead he says, “Because you don’t help a stray by throwin’ it in with the mutts.” Which is true, of course, just not quite _his_ truth.

“What did they say to you,” he asks, trying to spin this back on Palfrey, the microscope most uncomfortable turned on his own patchy morals. “The watch, I mean. They tell you anyone been attacked or robbed? Any livestock killed? Stolen water?”

“No?” Palfrey really looks hurt, now, and Galahad hates every second of it, but he presses on.

“What, then,” and here he laughs bitterly, “civil disobedience?”

Wringing his hands, Palfrey mumbles, “Well, yeah. E-exactly that, actually. They been to see you, too?”

Sensing the tone shifting in his favor, Galahad props an elbow on the counter top and doffs his saturno, dropping it to the side. 

“In fact, Edwin, they have,” he answers, “and you know what I told ‘em? 

“Same thing I’m tellin’ you,” he finishes, cutting short Palfrey’s bewildered shrug. 

“There ain’t no law above God's, and He says we help those we can. What _they_ do? Gawain and his?” Galahad jerks his head over his shoulder, his mouth drawn tight in distaste. “That’s no godly mission, I’ll tell you that for nothing, and neither me nor my flock are in the business of kicking each other when we’re down.”

This seems to satisfy Palfrey, but only for a moment, then he’s asking, not quite innocuously, “I–I mean isn’t that kinda what you’re doin, Father? Gettin’ in others’ business, I mean.”

This takes the preacher aback for a second. Edwin Palfrey is not a smart man, but there’s yet some of his daddy’s wit to the boy’s otherwise docile demeanor. It’s rare to witness, but it does come out, and it’s got Galahad a bit pinned between the eyes.

He does not like it at all.

But he is a man of his word, so he exhales slowly, trying to sympathize with the direction the boy is coming from and willing his patience not to abandon him.

“I know how this must look to you,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “Like I’m protecting some vagrants, yeah?”

Palfrey flushes a brief shade of pink, “Y-yeah… a bit, if m’honest.”

“And well, maybe I am,” the next lie slips like sour snuff between his teeth, “but until I’ve got proof enough besides Gawain’s word, I’ll be doing my part to keep safe whatever souls come my way for guidance.”

Which is… quite an impressive roundabout he’s taken rather than driving straight through untruths. He does want Tim to come to him, to repent, to seek his salvation, and that’s all Palfrey needs to know on the matter. Galahad’s other motivations, the impregnable obsession that’s claimed him, that is his onus, and his alone.

So, once more, the boy seems satisfied. There still glints a spark of curious hope in his eyes, but they’re quick to dart from the preacher’s heavy gaze, so it’ll have to suffice. He’s an easy one to chastise, is Palfrey, and Galahad likes not to push things too far. The boy’s only human, after all. 

“You do in your heart what you think is right,” he says, soothing any leftover offenses. “I know you’re smart enough to land straight.”

“Thank you, Father,” answers Palfrey. “I… suppose I was jumpin’ the gun a bit there.”

“Ain’t no shame in it. Now here,” and Galahad pushes a neat little stack of coin across the way. “Let’s have ourselves something to drink how ‘bout. Lord knows you’ve got me parched after that sermon, and before Sunday, too? Goodness, Edwin, you keep me on my toes.”

The boy laughs, Galahad grins, and for a short while, the preacher’s world narrows to the here and now of cheap whiskey and tentative camaraderie. 

“Oh don’t you worry none,” he says, when Palfrey first hesitates to pour himself a shot alongside the preacher’s. “Ain’t gonna tell your mother.”

Palfrey smiles, and they toast like old friends. All the while, though, a somber melody plucks its worried strings at the back of Galahad’s mind, the Prophet’s discursion, though most of it recalled only summarily, mulling itself over and over, till only the last part harmonizes on loop. Because the Prophet would not have confided Tim’s next move were there any other intention than to give the preacher a concise option. Right? And now with the coincidence of Tim showing up where he must have been certain the preacher would eventually inquire...

Still, as much as Galahad wants to know what events transpired, he's better to keep Palfrey's mind off anything that might further instigate his sympathies with the watch. 

“Something the matter, Father?” 

Galahad returns to himself and Palfrey’s raised eyebrow, and he nods absently.

“Think I’ll take some air now,” he says, the saloon suddenly oppressive in both atmosphere and patronage—a dusty group of four wandering in, their conversation carrying the promise of raucous drinking—and he doesn’t desire to spend the rest of the day in the unwise embrace of too much whiskey.

Donning his hat, he gives Palfrey a firm stare, not too grave, but leaving no room for doubt.

“You keep in mind what we talked about, alright, son?”

The boy swallows visibly, and nods, “I will, Father. Thank you, really.”

“Good, well. Don’t suspect I’ll be in here again so soon. You see that,” he indicates the coin in Palfrey’s fist, “gets to your mother. 

Then adds with a smirk, “But I won’t say nothing if you think your Billy could use a sweet or two.”

Palfrey goes scarlet as the sunset cycle.

“ _Father_!”

“I’ll see you Sunday, Edwin,” Galahad says, and that meager bit of levity might just be the thing to carry him through to this evening’s task.

That and the whiskey, but that’s between him and God, and if He won’t tell, then there’s nothing in the world to feel bad for. Not a damn thing.


	9. Needed; like a hole in the head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy....fucking howdy hey guys, it's'a me.... to keep this short and sweet, since my pedo harassing ban back in October, I fell out of tma/mechs pretty hard and Pathologic picked up the slack, but I like...really miss this fic lol, so I want to try and continue with it. This chapter had been sitting at around 3800 words in my drafts, so I polished it up and decided to test the waters and see if there's still interest in this story. Not a ton plot heavy happens here, but there's a lot of fun mechs banter. If I can keep the ball rolling, the next chapter has some really juicy scenes in store, so let me know if yall still wanna see where this goes and I'll try my best to keep at it <3
> 
> As always, title taken from Dry the River, this song is Lion's Den

They’re halfway through the wastes, a choking wind kicking up fierce clouds of dust, when Tim finally turns to address his crewmates.

“I hope you idiots enjoyed yourselves,” he growls behind his mask. “Because you are never fucking doing that again.”

“Oh come now, old bean!” Unfettered by the wind, the Toy Soldier trills as loudly as it likes. “I’d say Mr. Palfrey had a grand time with us!”

“Certainly seemed to be enjoying the view,” Ashes adds, and, goggles or otherwise, Tim can feel their gaze raking him head to toe.

Uninspired of a clever retort, Tim just growls, “Shut up,” and braces harder into the wind, all the gladder as the gale drowns out whatever else Ashes and the Soldier carry on for conversation the rest of the trip back to the Aurora.

“And where’s my fucking fence, then?” Ever a gracious face, Jonny greets them at the bay door, Sasha in tow and looking a little less traumatized. Even still, Tim doesn’t count her thousand yard stare for much.

“Delivery post-haste,” he answers grumpily, shouldering past the mate and into the ship. “Those two fucks decided to get cozy with locals.”

“Which means we don’t have to build it ourselves,” Ashes adds.

Jonny snorts, “Took you that long to bribe some carpenters?”

“And then we went for drinks!” This, from a beaming Soldier.

“ _Pff_ , you what?”

“Took a page from yours,” Tim interrupts, desperate to summarize this all as quickly as possible. “Scarred some drunks and a bartender, wasted a good deal of money, and now we’re back, and you’re going to wait for fucking… _whatever_ her name was to bring those supplies, yeah? Good.”

“Hilda!” Chirps the Soldier. “Oh, she was _lovely_ , wasn’t she?”

“We also dropped in on Brian,” Tim hears Ashes whisper none too quietly. “I think he’s sore on that.”

“Fuck off,” Tim calls, without much muster, and indeed his crewmates’ laughter follows him around the corner.

Ashes is right, though it’s hardly just _that_ hampering his mood. He’d tried to exert every precaution, but there’s no forestalling a spectacle when the Toy Soldier is involved, and spectacle did it ever make. He managed to thwart its efforts at a shot, and Palfrey gave a good natured enough laugh about it, but Tim has no idea how gossip travels around here and is not looking forward to discovering himself tacked on with conjecture about the strange newcomers.

Maybe if they can keep good enough graces with Hilda when she comes with the fence supplies… but Tim’s not holding his breath, especially if (and when) Jonny starts his bullshit. Part of Tim knows he should supervise that affair; just as well, he gathered the suggestion that Hilda and her—how did the Soldier put it?—very strong wife, can likely hold their own. And his refusal to let anyone kill anyone else has gone heeded thus far, so maybe he’s just overthinking things.

The moment he gets to his room, this meager hypothesis becomes a conviction, a bone deep weariness pushing a heavy sigh from his lips, and he slouches for his bed. There are a dozen bits and bobs of clutter, piled up from yesterday in his uninspired attempts to pass the hours, but he forgoes these and instead rummages out his guitar. 

Reclining lazily, he lets his mind drift as much as it’s able, plucking chords that resolve themselves to no real salvageable melody, but it’s still nice. In their ages spent searching for Brian, there’s been no effort to suss another tragedy for its story, and Tim can’t honestly recall the last time they sat around and had even an impromptu session. Though without their pilot, it would have been sorely lacking, anyway.

And perhaps it’s not all a lost cause, stranded here for a while. There’s oddity aplenty just about anywhere, if you look hard enough, and with Brian literally wired into the station, there’s undoubtedly more of a surface to scratch than dusty pylons and ornery preachers.

“ _Hm_ ,” Tim strums a succession of mournful minors as he lets his thoughts unwisely wander in that direction.

It could just be that Galahad is the only person Tim’s had any real interaction who’s been worth noting—which speaks not so kindly to his person that “knocked out and kind of kidnapped” equates to less than a blip on his radar—but Galahad hasn’t exactly behooved himself to any sort of reconcilable irrelevance. Hell, Tim half forgot Palfrey existed until he was convenient to derail the Soldier’s nonsense. 

But that damn preacher… 

Just then, a raucous din of shouting carries into his room, and Tim groans, puts aside his guitar, and is about to ping Aurora to seal his door, but before he can, a flustered Ivy barges her way in.

“Tim,” she says, tone calm despite her stormy expression, “why are there people outside with, oh, three wagons of building supplies?”

“Christ, already?” Tim mashes the heels of his hands into his eyes, but reopening them fails to wipe clean the scene of Ivy and her steadily frustrating bewilderment.

“Yeah, okay fine. Thought Ashes would have told you.”

“I didn’t even realize you were _back_.”

“That,” Tim jabs an accusing finger, “is not my fault.”

“Well _explain_ , please.”

Tim just shrugs, “They hired some locals to build Jonny’s fence.”

“And you just _let_ them?”

“What? You want to spend the day hauling wood and getting splinters?”

It’s a strange turn of events, defending Ashes and the Soldier like this, but their roping in Hilda seems to have proven itself at least a decent idea. Somewhat.

“I–that’s–” Ivy huffs, hands on her hips, frown deepening. “Fine, whatever. But that still doesn’t help me with the fact I have a half dozen strangers at the door.”

Another useless shrug from Tim, because this really isn’t his problem.

“Tell ‘em to get to work? I dunno, you were the one that vouched for this in the first place.”

“You–” Ivy raises one finger, mouth hung open in a rebuttal she knows has no footing.

“You’re such an arse,” she finishes, “you know that?”

“I’ve heard a fair few complaints,” grins Tim.

“ _Ugh_ , screw you, Gunpowder.”

“Try and keep 'em all alive if you can, yeah?”

He calls this as Ivy stalks from his room. 

A suicidally niggling part of Tim wants to follow after, just to see how the hell this means to go down; all the same, that little spat seems to have punctuated his involvement in these equestrian escapades, and what’s the harm in requesting Aurora double bolt his door? 

His sanity spared, Tim again plucks up his guitar and gladly relegates himself to idly strumming away the few more hours till sunset. Varying levels of shouts and laughs and curses ebb here and there, but bracing for gunshots proves a needless anxiety, and by the time the sun has started to dim a dusty pink, as well has the clamor of tools and rowdy conversation dulled considerably enough that Tim dares to venture from his room and see what’s become of the afternoon’s efforts.

An impressively sturdy and predictably small enclosure, is what, with Sasha penned neatly inside, though still looking no less aggrieved than when Tim last saw her. Nearby, a gaggle of sweaty, dust streaked folks stand in a conspicuously tight knit group, Hilda heading the pack and talking with Ashes. The others, presumably her wife and cousins, keep a collective gaze fixed on Jonny and the Toy Soldier, who have elected to ignore everyone and make themselves look like complete wankers cooing at Sasha.

Though his presence has no doubt been announced by the opening of the bay door, no one gives Tim the time of day, so he stays put watching the scene, only catching snippets of whatever Ashes and Hilda are negotiating. 

And as soon as they’d arrived, the band of builders departs, gathering up their supplies into three unremarkable wagons, and heading off in the direction of town, clouds of squealing transmissions and sour gasoline in their wake.

Momentarily off his guard, Tim jumps as Ivy abruptly sidles up and elbows him in the ribs. 

“Th’fuck is that for?” 

“For leaving me to play hostess. Seriously, Tim, what the fuck? Three times I had to convince Jonny not to shoot anyone.”

“Only three?”

Another elbow, but this one Tim’s prepared for, and he neatly sidesteps the assault, doing so well as to cuff Ivy upside the head.

“ _Ow_.”

“Grow up.”

“Fuck you.”

“Ladies!”

Ever useless and always keen to join in after the worst has been done away, Marius sweeps into view. He’s sporting a ridiculous fringed leather jacket and a too-widely-brimmed hat, which he tips Tim’s way with a grin.

Tim kicks him as soon as he’s near enough.

“ _Ow_ , what was that for?”

“I get the impression you still haven’t helped owt,” Tim replies, nonplussed, though he does track the movement of Marius’s hand, in case it strays too close to his holster.

“I’ll have you know I kept very civil conversation with all of those,” Marius waggles his fingers in disgust, “insignificant little dust-bunnies.”

“He actually did,” murmurs Ivy. 

Tim rolls his eyes, “Give the man a prize. Anyway,” and he nods at Jonny and the Soldier, still harassing poor Sasha, “they’re your problem for the rest of the night. I’m out.”

“Oh?” Marius crosses his arms over Ivy’s head, propping his chin. “And where’re you going?”

“He’s got a date,” of course Ashes would decide to interrupt now, and Tim spares no leniency in the glare he levels upon them.

“You know,” Ivy says, doing nothing to remove Marius, “for all you keep whingeing about us, you sure are messing about town a-fucking-lot.”

“Shut up,” Tim says, as Ashes opens their mouth, no doubt to agree, and then turns his ire on Ivy.

“My checking on Brian has fuck all on poker nights and _shootouts_ , okay?”

“Ugh, you sound like my mum,” Marius groans.

Ivy tilts her head up at him, “Do you even remember your mum?”

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Point _is_ ,” Tim says, “it’s your turn to babysit.”

“Babies, is it?” Right on fucking cue, Jonny saunters up to the group with the Soldier in tow. “Haven’t had one in years, me. We doing a little cookout, then? Celebrate Sasha’s good fortune?”

“Holy fucking shit,” and Tim draws forth two pistols, “I am _going_ to shoot all of you.”

Before he can click back either safety, Ashes crowds in close, grabbing each gun by the muzzle, and shoving them beside his hips.

“Cool it,” they murmur, staring him down.

And although the spark in their eyes promises no such middling temperature, Tim gives a good snarl to his credit.

Ashes just snorts and squeezes his wrists till they creak.

“Fine, _fine_. Okay fine,” he relents, and they let go, cuffing him under the chin. 

“Yeah?” They ask, one brow raised, and he bears his teeth in a simpering grunt.

“Fuck you.”

They pat his cheek, “If you’re lucky, Tim.”

“So… that’s no babies, then.”

Which is a nicely effective way to get Ashes out of Tim’s personal space, the cardslinger turning on their heel to give Jonny his own well earned hard time.

“M’fraid not, captain, but I’ve heard horse tastes the same.”

“Please let’s not eat Sasha!” Chimes the Soldier. “Seems an awful waste having this fence put in and all!”

In a stroke of halfway decent luck, Tim slips back into the ship, leaving his fucking idiot crewmates to bicker about who’s going to eat who. He gets to his room, and upon trading the majority of his pistols for his guitar—which leaves him two at the waist and one across his chest—he slips out and heads for the airlock. Perhaps an excessive means of sneaking away, but it serves well in a pinch, and he’s _this_ close to properly snapping back at everyone.

He’s all set to go, psyching himself up for the discomforting sensation of depressurization, when a hand shoots out and smacks his away from the chamber latch. 

“Th’fuck–?”

It’s Ivy, arms crossed and visage skeptical. 

“What.”

“I just think you’re pushing it,” she says.

“Well, I was about to until _you_ –”

“ _Tim_.”

“I’m not _not_ going,” he says plainly. “So you can quit whatever weird mother hen bullshit this is.”

“I couldn’t care less if you got hung drawn and quartered,” Ivy spits back, with a vitriol that actually surprises Tim. “What I _do_ care about, is how much you keep antagonizing Ashes and Jonny.”

“Oh what, they tattle or something?”

“We still haven’t heard a word from Nastya or Raph,” Ivy continues, ignoring the gibe, “and I’m not holding out much faith for their bloody ETA. I know you’re trying to keep things civil, but Jesus Christ, Tim, try a little harder.”

There’s a beat of silence between them, bowstring tight as Tim stares down his mate. Then, without a word, he shoves her aside, unlatches the airlock, and scrambles inside. He maintains good enough posture to catch Ivy throwing her hands up in exasperation, and as the chamber around him begins to pressurize, he throws her the finger, for good measure.

Having very little to be glad of lately, he counts several blessings no one sees the sprawling heap he lands in when the airlock spits him out. It being a solid ten and a half feet off the ground doesn’t help matters, either, but the worst damage seems isolated to only his left elbow and right knee, and his guitar hasn’t a scratch, so that’s job well done.

With a few groans and curses, he’s on his feet, batting the clinging dust from his coat, and slinging the guitar across his back. 

The sun has dimmed considerably in the past few minutes, the horizon beneath it limned in a meniscus of burgundy along which jagged upward thrusts of silhouetted black demarcate the town. A few lights blink on as he begins his trek, a welcoming point of oasis from his infuriating crewmates. 

Much in spite of every irksome thing that’s waylaid him thus far, he can at least allow a private smile for that.

  
  
  


And yet… for all his planning and chastising and even more, fucking planning, it’s only when Tim’s reached the environs that he realizes it’s nowhere near midnight, and that he’s not yet navigated the town in full swing of its nightlife. 

He spends a few seconds mentally kicking himself, but like hell he’s going back to the ship. Realistically, all he has to do is slip unnoticed into the church, and with the aid of his mask and goggles, that shouldn’t be too hard. For good measure, he again braids his hair, tucks it down his back, and hikes up his coat’s collar.

Successfully anonymized about as well as he can be, Tim makes for the town square, sticking to the side streets before he can no longer avoid the well lit mingling of drinkers and couples, and, with a deep breath, he sweeps into their assemblage. It goes well at first, instinct from when he decides subtlety is better suited than firearms lending him a decent head start. 

Until _tink!_ and Tim flinches to a halt, the sharp-aimed edge of a coin striking square against his goggles and falling to his feet with a puff of dust.

“Give us a song, then, eh?” 

Tim snaps from his slightly stunned confusion to see some scrawny, red-nosed prick with his fist outstretched and his thumb flicked forward. 

“Aw, c’mon, there’s plenty more if we like what y’ve got. Ain’t that right, boys?”

The addressed consists of two other pieces of work, all watery-eyed and caked in various stains of rust and dust and sweat. Not even worth the spit it would take to rebuff them, but Tim hasn’t had anyone proper to take his mood out on, and he reckons he can keep it all above holster, so to speak.

“Either I’m going to forget you did that,” he says coolly, to the leader who struck the coin. “Or this,” and he swings his guitar around and indicates the neck, “is going so far down your throat, you’ll be playing out your arse for weeks.”

Though in tone he employs significant restraint, he flourishes the sentiment with a lifting of his goggles, staring straight through the man with all the grotesque malevolence Carmilla soldered there so many centuries ago. 

The leering grin that had formerly adorned the man’s mostly toothless mouth curls in horror, the rest of his face following suit along with his friends.

“Well?” Tim prompts. “What’ll it be, gents.”

They don’t turn tail, exactly, are much too inebriated for that, but they do achieve an impressive enough scramble, backing away and babbling excuses Tim couldn’t care less to spare the brain power understanding.

“Have it your way,” he shrugs, and, bending down to retrieve the so rudely proffered coin, he continues on his way.

He half expects the men to come looking for a proper altercation, but then he’s weaving through the crowds again, and no matter how big the galaxy and its myriad cultures, not starting shit when there are witnesses present seems to be a comfortable universal constant, and for that, Tim’s grateful. Plus, he got a bit of local cash out of it, which, while mostly useless, is kind of fun, in a souvenir sort of way.

As if he doesn’t have enough of those already, and then some. A trail of thought that ends at the doors to the church, the building looming up before him in a span of time he hadn’t been registering at all, had just let his feet carry him there.

Stealing a quick look over his shoulder to confirm no one is watching—and how could they, really, though much in the center of the square, the church sits bathed in darkness, with no electricals to speak of lighting its threshold—he slips inside, heart in this throat with a faint rush of adrenaline. 

Stealing a second to exhale, he braces his palms on the doors, considers, briefly, locking them entirely, but decides against it, instead turning on his heel, and marching for Brian’s altar.

He gets about a step and a half there, which, in retrospect, he’ll be very proud of. 

Presently, it lands him into a stumbling halt—his guitar banging splinteringly _loud_ against the edge of the nearest pew—where he stands in abrupt panic at the sight of not one silhouette upon the altar, but two

“You sure know how to make an entrance,” says the one that, clearly, is not Brian.

Peeling himself from the excessive atmosphere of the dozen odd candles illuminating the room, Galahad spares no trepidation, striding toward Tim, hat in hand, curls afire in almost the same, gilded relief as Brian’s, such that Tim’s entirely unable to decide who to focus on. A burning glare for the Prophet, or an aloof scowl for the preacher. 

Genuinely, he feels inclined to neither, but Galahad is fast approaching, and Tim has no fucking defenses planned, guns notwithstanding.

“Uh… hi, Father? Fancy seeing you here in the dead of night.”

Perhaps not his best, but the sarcasm lends well for a bit of buffer, at least enough to halt Galahad a few feet before he reaches Tim, the preacher staring him over. 

The last time they’d seen each other was when Tim had stormed from his bed, bruised and confused and intrigued and keen to start _something_ , but now the preacher’s gone and done that for him, leaving Tim at the mercy of whatever rules he’s already set. 

“Was told you’d be here,” Galahad answers, far softer in tone than Tim has yet heard him. 

It doesn’t bode well, and three fucking guesses who _told_ him that little morsel.

“ _Were_ you now?” Tim bites this more for Brian’s sake than Galahad’s, but he’s too far away, and the candlelight too dim, to discern the Drumbot’s reaction, if any at all. 

Galahad, however, is plenty near enough for Tim to catch him seizing up, just a little, his lips pulling back in a poorly contained snarl.

“In fact I was,” the preacher says. “Seems our Prophet has seen fit to extend his sympathy.”

Tim rolls his eyes, a laugh burbling in his chest he struggles to keep contained. 

“Oh I’m flattered, I’m sure.”

“Don’t try me, son.”

“Whyever not? We had _so_ much fun last time.”

Tim half expects the preacher to strike, then, to lunge forward and land another blow. His posture denotes as much of a desire, but his expression, inscrutable at first, resolves itself to what could almost pass for concern as Galahad takes several calculated steps closer.

“You’ve brought some undue attention to yourself,” he says, and Tim doesn’t realize he’s matched the preacher’s approach in reverse till his back hits the doors and there’s suddenly nowhere to go.

“You and your _associates_ , both.” 

“Beg pardon?” Tim brings his hands up in a meek defense, Galahad crowding far closer than is _really_ advisable.

“The watch has their eye on y'all,” says the preacher, ignoring Tim’s gestures entirely. “Been asking ‘round for the bandits what swindled at cards for a horse. 

The news lands about as devastating a blow as a bird alighting, Tim far more preoccupied with the Galahad, himself, his voice ragged and his eyes shining.

“I’ll be the first to admit that’s nothing to earn Gawain on their tail, but,” Galahad sneers deeply, “the law’s the law, and there’s not much I can do, save give you some advice.”

“And whatwould that be, Father,” Tim replies.

Well, more like whispers. This all feels oddly… prescient, and his wit has apparently seen fit to flee him.

Galahad stares at him for a good, long minute, providing Tim ample time to learn the cut glass depths of his eyes, the fluttering dilation of pupil as the preacher’s focus darts and flits, but never fully divests itself from Tim’s. 

Slow and deliberate, Galahad offers his warning, working over each syllable in a dark and chastising a timbre, and Tim’s stomach takes a half clumsy swan leap, has the man licking his suddenly parched lips and staring rather where he shouldn’t. Not that Galahad notices. 

“Whatever business you have here,” says the preacher, “you’d best keep it under wraps. My door’s always open, but I can’t say how strong it is if Gawain gets his head on wrong.”

“Absolutely no offense intended,” Tim drags one hand down his face, trying to wipe away an exasperated smile, “honestly I swear, Father, but what the fuck do you think I’ve been doing this whole week?”

“Way I hear it?” And here Galahad actually lands a finger to Tim’s chest, a heavy point of accusation right to the sternum. “Way I’ve _seen_ it? Flaunting around right along with the rest of your brigands.”

“Ha! Now _there’s_ a bold claim. Swear it’s all the same with you lot. One free drink, and suddenly we’re torching virgins and poisoning wells.”

“And you’ve got a lot to learn if you think that’s all I care about,” rebuffs Galahad. “I’m trying to _help_ –”

“And I’ve already told you to save your bloody breath,” spits Tim, shoving the preacher.

Flirty snipes are all well and good, but on top of an already shit day? The last thing Tim wants is a sermon.

At the very fucking least, Galahad knows when to take a hint, and though he glowers something fierce, braced against the pew behind him, his mouth sits tight on a firmly shut line.

“ _Thank_ you,” Tim sighs.

“Go on, then,” says Galahad, a monotone growl. “Stay with the Prophet, I won’t stop you, whatever you were plannin’ on doing.”

“Oh no,” Tim scoffs, shouldering his guitar, “you don’t get to be the good guy, here. And neither does fucking _he_ ,” spat in the direction of Brian.

With a sweeping gait, Tim stalks to the doors, throwing them open with a _bang_!

“Do _not_ follow me,” he warns, sensing an approaching presence, and before Galahad can object, he melts into the square, re-affixing his former effects, and wondering where, exactly, it would be best to get blind drunk.

He’s not mad. 

Well, he is, but he’s not mad in the right way, and that was entirely an overreaction, but there’s no amending it now. It’s done with. The day’s stress came to a head, now with the added bonus of Brian’s betrayal, which, seriously, what the fuck was that all about? Giving Galahad the upper hand, and completely ruining their evening? 

So consumed by his thoughts, Tim doesn’t even notice where he’s going, though when he finally looks up, apparently he’s seen fit to bring himself back to the start of this all at Palfrey’s establishment. He sighs, then laughs, and ducks into the saloon, making for the table furthest from the door. 

There, he sprawls in the single seat, laying his guitar aside, and closing his eyes. After an uncomfortable minute, he remembers to remove his goggles, but keeps his mask and collar firmly fixed. A glance to the bar reveals an absence of Palfrey, some other bloke in his place, but Tim’s not taking any more chances, and the room is pleasantly hushed to the comparative bustle outside, so he’d like more than a spare minute to cool down here.

A minute turns into over an hour, and a whiskey about halfway through, kindly supplied to him by a benevolently moneyed drunk who wanders in from the square, buys a round for the whole saloon, and leaves almost immediately. It’s nothing top shelf, but decent enough to soften Tim’s mood, and by the time he’s finished, the yet unsated part of him whispers temptingly to go back to the church.

And he almost does. 

But it’s late. Very late, and the night crowd has thinned considerably, and as Tim loiters outside the saloon, debating his next move, he spies no less than four watch slinking from the shadows and descending on the loudest of the remaining throng with firm threats of, “Move along, now.”

He knows his window of opportunity came and went, and if he stays any later, he’s sure to get spotted, and from the sound of that Gawain character, that’s the last thing he needs. 

Resigned to his disappointment, he decides to head back to the ship and try another night. Perhaps a few days bereft of company will teach Brian a lesson about snitching, and much as Tim has enjoyed riling up Galahad, he needs a break. They all do.

His mind begrudgingly made up, Tim disappears down the same alley from that afternoon, retracing his and Ashes’ and the Soldier’s route from earlier, till it spits him back out into the desert, undeterred by any of the watch, and only his tumbling thoughts for company the rest of the trek back.

He only hopes that when he gets there, Ivy will let him on board.


End file.
